THE   ROMANCE 


THE  ENGLISH  STAGE 


BY 

PERCY    FITZGERALD.  M.A..  F.S.A.. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.    B.    LIPPINCOTT   &    CO. 
i«75- 


INSCRIBED 


CHARLES   JAMES   MATHEWS,  ESQ. 


2039458 


PREFACE. 


THERE  are  several  collections  in  which  the  lives  of  the 
English  actors  and  actresses  have  been  set  out.  Of  these 
the  most  important  are  Gait's  "Lives  of  the  Players,"  in 
which  the  substance,  without  the  form,  of  the  various  the- 
atrical autobiographies  has  been  given,  mingled,  however, 
with  much  that  is  apocryphal ;  and  the  more  recent  "  His- 
tory of  the  English  Stage,"  by  Dr.  Doran,  which  is  brought 
down  almost  to  our  own  day. 

Nothing,  however,  hitherto  published  has  professed  to 
place  before  the  public  what  may  be  considered  the  most 
interesting  and  characteristic  feature  of  theatrical  memoirs. 
Their  chief  attraction  is  found  to  be  the  air  of  personal 
confession,  and  simplicity  of  the  revelations  furnished — 
the  natvftf,  the  humor,  and  almost  garrulous  confidence ; 
above  all,  the  quaint  turn  of  expression  in  which  every- 
thing is  unfolded.  A  selection  of  such  entertaining  pas- 
sages  seemed  likely  to  present  a  better  idea  of  the  player's 
nature  and  character,  than  the  more  official  and  historical 
accounts  with  which  the  public  is  already  familiar;  and 
this,  it  is  hoped,  has  been  attempted  with  some  success  in 
the  following  pages. 

The  carrying  out  of  such  a  design  naturally  required 
i*  5 


6  PREFACE. 

large  space,  for  the  list  of  theatrical  autobiographies  is  a 
long  one.  It  was  necessary,  therefore,  that  some  principle 
should  direct  the  selection.  And  this  has  been  applied  by 
admitting  such  narratives  only  as  should  illustrate  some 
special  type  of  life  or  character.  Thus,  the  story  of  the 
unfortunate  Mossop  exhibits  the  proud  and  luckless  player, 
— that  of  Mrs.  Bellamy,  the  career  of  a  gay  and  frivolous 
stage  beauty.  Tate  Wilkinson's  shows  the  pleasant  vaga- 
bondage of  a  "wandering  patentee:"  while  the  pathetic 
history  of  Gerald  Griffin  sets  out  the  weary  struggles  of  a 
young  dramatist  in  the  world  of  London.  The  fate  of 
Miss  Ray,  and  the  romance  of  Miss  Smithson,  illustrate  the 
tragic  and  melodramatic  sides  of  stage  life  respectively ; 
while  the  career  of  Elliston  introduces  us  to  the  type  of 
the  airy  Comedian,  who  plays  as  consistently  in  every-day 
life  as  though  he  were  at  the  footlights.  Sketches  of  the 
exploded  "strolling"  days,  with  pictures  of  what  came 
next  in  degree — the  respectable  provincial  Theatre — have 
been  added  :  and  thus  a  tolerably  complete  view  is  obtained 
of  the  romance  and  humors  of  a  fashion  of  life  that  has 
now  almost  passed  away. 

There  are  other  stories  which,  on  the  ground  of  romance, 
might  fairly  claim  a  place,  such  as  those  of  Macklin,  Savage, 
Mrs.  Inchbald,  George  Soane,  and  perhaps  Mrs.  Jordan. 
But  space  was  wanting.  What  has  been  given  will,  it  is 
hoped,  be  found  sufficient  to  furnish  a  good  idea  of  the 
player's  life,  character,  and  feelings,  unfolded  in  his  own 
words. 

LONDON,  1874. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  L 

THEATRICAL  MEMOIRS 


CHAPTER  IL 
THE  STROLLER'S  LIFE 


CHAPTER  IIL 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  AXXE  BELLAMY 76 

CHAPTER  V. 

THE  ADVE3JTCRES  OF  TATE  WttlOXSOX 144 

CHAPTER  VL 

GREAT  DEBCTS:  GARRICK— SIDDOI6— KEAX          .  .  .  .219 

CHAPTER  VIL 

"THE   ILL-FATED  MOSSOP51 228 

CHAPTER  VIIL 

LOVE  AXD  DEATH  UPON   THE  STAGE 240 

CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  IRELAXD   FORGERIES 278 

CHAPTER  X. 

29! 

7 


8  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER   XI.  PAGE 

GEORGE  FREDERICK   COOKE 33! 

CHAPTER   XII. 

ELLISTON 361 

CHAPTER   XIII. 

GERALD   GRIFFIN 401 

CHAPTER   XIV. 

THE  YOUNG  ROSCIUS 423 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  STAGE. 


CHAPTER    I. 

THEATRICAL  MEMOIRS. 

THE  angular  fascination  which  the  stage  has  alwajs 
exercised,  holding  under  its  spell  every  race  and  genera- 
tion, from  the  rudest  to  the  most  refined,  has  been  thought 
not  unworthy  the  serious  inquiry  of  the  philosopher.  There 
is,  indeed,  nothing  in  human  society  so  deeply  rooted,  or 
so  independent  of  taste  or  fashion :  and  the  relish  for  stage 
entertainment  is  now  as  keen  and  even  passionate  as  it  was 
in  the  remote  days  when  the  finest  actors  flourished.  With- 
out entering  very  deeply  into  the  matter,  it  could  be  shown 
in  a  few  words  that  this  ineradicable  taste  is  the  same  as 
that  which  finds  a  gratification  in  the  thrilling  excitement 
of  politics,  in  following  the  skirmishings  and  varying  for- 
tunes of  a  trial  in  the  courts,  or  even  the  lively  skirmishing 
of  conversation.  These  are  all  so  many  shapes  of  histrionic 
entertainment,  for  the  most  part  imperfect  and  wanting 
dramatic  power,  but,  so  far  as  they  go,  offering  glimpses 
of  genuine  interest.  When  a  really  exciting  situation  is 
evolved  spontaneously  and  naturally  in  any  of  these  arenas, 
nothing  can  exceed  the  avidity  with  which  it  is  followed. 
Time  itself  is  annihilated,  for  the  hours  fly  by  like  mo- 
ments: the  weight  of  existence,  for  those  at  least  on  whom 
it  lies  heavily,  is  lifted  off:  and  even  surrounding  acces- 
A*  9 


10  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

series,  meagre  and  squalid  though  they  be,  become  almost 
glorified.  But  for  the  average  mass  of  mankind  this  sort 
of  enjoyment  is  out  of  reach.  The  opportunities  are  few ; 
for  "the  people"  is  busy  with  material  interests,  while  its 
intellect  and  cultivation  is  of  a  homely  order.  Indeed, 
the  pure  crowd  cannot  hope  to  see  anything  more  dramatic 
than  a  street  commotion,  an  altercation,  or  a  public-house 
discussion.  Eves  among  the  cultivated  and  opulent  classes, 
the  dramatic  surprises  of  real  life  cannot  be  reckoned  on. 
Everything  dramatic  is  spontaneous,  not  to  be  bespoken 
by  the  influence  of  money  or  rank.  An  exciting  and 
witty  conversation  of  the  give-and-take  order  is  no  more 
to  be  foreordained,  than  a  humorist  can  be  directed  "  to 
begin  to  be  funny."  The  most  dramatic  debates  in  Par- 
liament are  those  which  have  arisen  out  of  some  unpre- 
pared-for  incident.  Even  in  a  cause  celebre,-w\\\\e  allowing 
a  margin  for  vulgar  curiosity  and  for  the  mere  eagerness  to 
see  what  every  one  is  eager  to  see,  there  is  an  indescribable 
sense  of  interest  aroused  when,  say  a  plaintiff  comes  to  be 
cross-examined.  For  this  means  that  the  human  mind  will 
be  exhibited  under  the  most  varied  surprises, — will  be 
forced,  perhaps  unwillingly,  to  the  test  of  truth  and  false- 
hood, exhibiting  the  whole  round  of  emotions,  exciting 
the  listeners  by  its  repulses,  and,  when  .all  seems  lost,  its 
desperate  rallies.  Apart  from  the  stimulant  of  ordinary 
curiosity,  the  fact  of  so  rare  an  exhibition  going  on  rouses 
the  dramatic  passion  and  causes  that  press  and  eagerness 
which  attend  on  every  remarkable  trial.  So  with  a  debate ; 
so  with  even  the  poorest  kind  of  street  discussion. 

This  sort  of  entertainment,  then,  being  rare  and  acci- 
dental, and*  "the  crowd"  not  being  likely  to  meet  with 
opportunities  of  enjoying  it,  it  was  discovered  that  a  sort 
of  substitute  could  be  offered  for  it,  under  fixed  and  regular 
conditions.  A  kind  of  reproduction  of  the  dramatic  in- 


THEATRICAL   MEMOIRS.  1 1 

cidents  of  real  life  was  found  to  be  as  interesting  as  the 
original.  Gifted  men,  either  by  inspiration  or  art,  soon 
reached  to  the  secret,  and  discovered  that  by  due  selection 
and  abstraction  dramatic  elements  could  be  made  to  pro- 
duce more  exciting  results  than  the  chance  occurrences  of 
daily  life.  The  "writing  of  a  play"  is  thus  the  result  of 
philosophical  thought  applied  to  unregulated  accidents, 
and  offers  the  combination  within  a  short  space  and  time, 
and  in  the  most  forcible  fashion,  of  what  in  real  life  might 
be  diluted  over  years  of  time  and  miles  of  space. 

This  little  inquiry  will  show,  perhaps  explain,  the  natural 
fascination  which  the  stage  and  its  associations  seem  to 
have  for  mankind.  We  see  reflected  the  most  piquant  con- 
ditions of  our  life,  emotions,  humors,  as  in  a  mirror,  with 
all  that  interests  our  curiosity  and  passions.  There  is  a 
tenderness  and  indulgence  even  now  maintained  by  the 
very  strength  of  old  traditions,  in  spite  of  the  commercial 
character  assumed  by  theatrical  undertakings  and  the  mere 
shows  they  offer.  This  feeling  has  come  down  to  us  from 
the  days  of  the  great  actors  and  the  great  plays,  when  early 
repasts  allowed  of  assiduous  attendance,  night  after  night, 
in  pit  and  boxes :  from  the  time  when  the  fine  actor  or 
actress  was  as  conspicuous  a  personage  as  a  prime  minister, 
and  the  night  of  his  finest  impersonation  as  important  as 
that  of  a  great  bill  or  debate.  It  was  the  intellectual  man, 
with  the  situations  in  which  he  figured,  that  excited  enthu- 
siasm :  an  impression  independent  of  scenery  or  dress. 
The  sense  of  the  great  character,  as  it  were,  filled  the  air. 
It  was  as  the  presence  of  some  potentate.  Even  lately, 
when  Sheridan's  comedies  were  stereotyped  in  the  bills 
and  the  nights  of  performance  were  counted  by  hundreds, 
there  was  a  mysterious  effect  of  vitality  produced.  We 
pass  the  doors  of  the  playhouse  with  a  certain  reverence. 
Sir  Peter  Teazle,  Mr.  Joseph  Surface,  and  other  well-known 


12  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

characters,  with  all  their  nature  and  liveliness,  seem  to  be 
residing  within :  their  faces  look  out  from  photographs  in 
the  shop  windows,  marvelous  to  say  with  an  actual  intelli- 
gence and  harmonious  significance  that  would  never  have 
been  inspired  in  modern  pieces. 

The  most  persistent  grumbler  and  most  eager  asserter  of 
the  supremacy  of  the  palmy  old  days  of  the  drama  still  en- 
tertains a  fond  interest  and  curiosity  in  current  theatrical 
events.  The  critiques  are  carefully  read :  they  have  the 
mysterious  "  orange-peel"  flavor.  He  lingers  before  the 
playhouses,  and  ponders  over  the  bills.  In  spite  of  desil- 
lusionnement  and  a  steady  succession  of  disappointments 
he  clings  to  the  old  faith.  The  foot-lights,  the  "  borders," 
the  glimpse  of  the  uninviting  and  cavernous  stage-door 
stirs  emotions — gives  a  thrill,  which  a  Mayfair  hall-door 
held  open,  with  a  procession  of  entering  belles,  would  fail 
to  excite.  The  late  Mr.  Dickens  rarely  passed  through  the 
most  obscure  provincial  town  without  being  drawn  away 
by  the  attraction  of  the  local  theatre,  no  matter  what  its 
quality.  The  once  common  association  of  the  flavor 
of  orange-peel  with  playhouse  recollections  has  become 
scarcely  appreciable  by  the  new  generation.  But  more 
mature  playgoers  will  own  to  the  almost  magical  power 
of  such  a  reminder,  which  will  call  up  the  darkened  pas- 
sages, the  delicious  expectancy  of  childhood — the  huge 
solemnity  of  the  green  curtain,  which  descended  in  waves, 
as  it  were,  and  with  a  funereal  effect.  There  has  passed 
away  also  the  old-fashioned  playbill,  long  and  fluttering, 
with  a  vast  deal  of  lustrous  printer's  ink,  which  had  a  pecu- 
liar savor  of  its  own — not  unwelcome — and  which  even 
soiled  the  kid  gloves.  The  new  theatres  are  boudoirs,  the 
bills  are  lace-edged  like  valentines,  and  highly  scented  ; 
the  orange-women  and  their  great  baskets  would  be  rudely 
inappropriate  in  such,  though  oranges  may  be  seen  often 


THEATRICAL   MEMOIRS. 


--•• 


elegantly  arranged  with  the  dainties  at  the  glittering  bars 
of  Messrs.  Spiers  and  Pond  and  other  caterers.  The  cur- 
tain is  usually  a  gaudy  drop-scene,  with  an  inelegant  roller, 
which  shuts  up  the  closing  tableau  from  view,  marks  its 
arrival  on  the  boards  with  a  hollow  thud,  and  often  dis- 
plays a  cheerful  Italian  landscape.  Chocolate,  mauve, 
crimson,  amber,  and  other  gaudy  tints  have  been  found 
more  in  keeping  with  the  garish  and  elaborate  shows  be- 
hind. Such  decorations  have  a  sort  of  mtsquin  air :  and 
there  was  unquestionably  a  truer  dramatic  instinct  in  the 
simplicity  and  indefiniteness  of  the  huge  exposure  of  dark 
green  and  something  more  significant  of  "  the  end,"  which 
it  was  sought  to  present  with  wholesome  effect  to  the  spec- 
tators. 

In  those  old  days  there  was  simplicity  about  everything 
connected  with  the  stage — and  it  was  "THE  PLAT/'  with 
the  absorbing  interest  of  the  story,  that  so  fascinated  the 
beholder's  soul.  The  spell  was  an  intellectual  one,  though 
it  might  be  conceived  that  the  sensual  element  might  have 
appealed  more  directly.  It  may  be  doubted  if,  in  these 
days  of  ftcrits,  so  gorgeous  with  scenic  marvels,  of  vast 
bands  of  young  ladies,  "glorified"  with  gold  and  silver 
armor,  the  charm  would  have  been  as  potent.  In  the 
boy's  mind  the  whole  was  a  sort  of  ethereallzed  "  story- 
book," and  the  enormous  and  insuperable  barrier  that  so 
hopelessly  separated  him  from  the  figures  made  them  seem 
almost  like  immortals.  There  is  something  in  the  con- 
dition of  anything  seen  upon  the  stage  that  almost  justifies 
this  delightful  hallucination.  Figures  and  groups  under 
the  fierce  light,  with  the  gorgeous  coloring  and  pictur- 
esque background,  acquire  an  air  heroic  and  supernatural 
which  no  logic  will  displace.  The  active  steps  of  a  grace- 
ful dansfttsc  seem,  from  the  boxes,  to  have  a  mysterious 
airiness  and  lightness,  though  on  a  near  view  they  are  no 

2 


I4  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

more  than  a  series  of  leaps  made  with  considerable  mus- 
cular exertion.  The  steady  playgoer,  though  disgusted 
with  repeated  disappointments  from  bad  acting,  never 
quite  loses  the  old  faith,  and  to  the  very  last  something 
like  the  child's  exaggerated  belief  is  his. 

But  there  are  other  conditions,  apart  from  their  immedi- 
ate presence  on  the  stage,  which  lend  a  curious  charm  to 
actors  and  actresses.  Lawyers,  physicians,  clergymen,  and 
politicians  attract  no  particular  attention  when  removed 
from  their  special  stages,  and  are  most  effective  when  busy 
with  their  "callings.  But  actors,  outside  their  profession, 
have  always  been  an  interesting  class.  They  seem  to  carry 
into  the  colder  and  ruder  world  of  life  some  of  the  fitful 
adventures  of  that  unreal  sphere  in  which  they  figure  from 
dusk  until  midnight.  The  experience  of  our  time,  it  may 
be  thought,  helped  by  the  practical  tone  of  the  day,  shows 
the  actor  to  be  a  being  of  more  than  average  homeliness. 
While  the  ideal  world  behind  the  scenes  is  all  show,  deco- 
ration, and  gorgeousness,  and  a  commercial  spirit  regulates 
the  whole,  it  is  but  natural  that  this  artificial  tone  should 
draw  down  the  living  elements  to  a  more  prosy  level  than 
even  that  of  everyday  life.  But  where  the  spirit  of  pure 
acting  obtains,  where  the  theatre  scenery  is  comparatively 
naught,  and  THE  PLAY — extract  of  real  life — with  all  its 
broad  characters  and  humors,  is  the  attraction,  then  the 
actors  do  not  merely  share  the  ordinary  dignities  of  life, 
but  are  elevated  beyond  it.  After  the  performance  of  some 
great  piece  like  the  "School  for  Scandal,"  we  come  away 
with  a  feeling  compounded  of  reverence  and  wonder.  We 
have  seen  what  is  not  altogether  a  mimicry  of  life :  the 
performers  seem  not  so  much  actors,  as  sharers  in  the 
action  ;  we  think  of  them  with  curiosity  and  admiration ; 
we  look  upon  them,  even  follow  them  in  the  street,  drawn 
by  an  irresistible  attraction,  much  as  Lamb  followed  the 


THEATRICAL    MEMOIRS.  15 

"  retired  Diocletian  of  Islington,"  as  he  delighted  to  style 
Quick.  So  have  we  seen  an  eminent  member  of  the  Fran- 
cais  corps  pursued  down  the  whole  length  of  a  boulevard, 
with  eagerly  turning  heads  and  scarcely  repressed  exclama- 
tions. This  tribute  may  be  of  course  paid  ro  say  one  of 
our  leading  "comiques,"  but  it  takes  the  shape  of  a  too 
familiar  recognition,  accompanied  by  a  not  over  respectful 
grin.  This  distinction  is  really  founded  on  an  admission 
of  superiority ;  for  we  feel  that  the  interpreter  of  a  great 
dramatic  part  is  infinitely  above  us :  whereas  every  one 
knows  that,  with  a  little  training,  we  could  figure  quite  as 
respectably  as  the  mechanical  characters  who  help  off  a 
sensation  piece,  or  the  diverting  beings  who  sing  and 
dance  and  joke  through  a  popular  burlesque.  It  would  be 
curious  to  apply  this  standard  to  the  case  of  our  living 
English  actors,  and  it  would  be  found  by  no  means  a  bad 
plan  for  ascertaining  their  position.  We  shall  find  our- 
selves regarding  those  whose  fame  is  associated  with  the 
greater  comedies  and  established  characters  with  a  rever- 
ence that  contrasts  oddly  with  what  we  entertain  towards 
those  who  support  indiscriminately  all  the  multifarious 
characters  offered  to  them  in  the  ephemeral  dramas  of  our 
day.  The  result  is  the  outlines  of  their  figures  and  faces 
are  blurred  and  indistinct.  They  are  mere  privates  in  the 
ranks,  doing  duty  in  turn  :  and  one  is  about  as  effective  as 
another;  whereas  those  who  have  been  associated  with 
pieces  of  mark  stand  out  with  the  distinctness  of  a  political 
character.* 


*This  principle  is  exhibited  in  a  minor  degree  even  in  that  cloud  of  his- 
trionic photographs  which  fill  the  shop  windows.  There  are  seen  ranks 
upon  ranks  of  the  most  noted  performers ;  and  though  the  costumes  are 
the  most  bizarre  and  extravagant,  the  wearers  being  "  done  in  character." 
the  impression  left  is  of  the  feeblest  and  most  indistinct  kind.  On  the 
other  hand,  a  portrait,  say  of  Mr.  Clayton  as  Surface,  is  of  the  most  re- 


1 6  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

"A  goodly  company  of  comedians,"  says  Hazlitt,  in  an 
enthusiastic  essay,  "a  theatre  royal  judiciously  managed, 
is  your  true  Heralds'  College,  the  only  Antiquarian  Society 
that  is  worth  a  rush.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  there  is  such 
an  air  of  romance  about  players,  and  it  is  pleasanter  to  see 
them  even  in  their  own  persons  than  any  of  the  three  learned 
professions.  We  feel  more  respect  for  John  Kemble  in  a 
plain  coat  than  for  the  Lord  Chancellor  on  the  woolsack. 
The  most  pleasant  feature  in  the  profession  of  a  player,  and 
which,  indeed,  is  peculiar  to  it,  is,  that  we  not  only  admire 
the  talents  of  those  that  adorn  it,  but  we  contract  a  personal 
intimacy  with  them.  There  is  no  class  of  society  whom  so 
many  persons  regard  with  affection  as  actors.  We  meet 
them  on  the  stage ;  we  like  to  meet  them  in  the  streets ; 
they  almost  always  recall  to  us  pleasant  associations,  and 
we  feel  our  gratitude  excited  without  the  uneasiness  of  a 
sense  of  obligation."  These  are  happily-chosen  phrases, 
and  it  is  within  the  experience  of  most  people  that  they 
are  thus  affected;  though  of  course  after  a  faint  fashion, 
as  these  remarks  were  written  some  fifty  years  ago,  when 
intellectual  pieces  and  characters  held  the  stage. 

This  little  description  brings  us  to  the  purpose  of  the 
present  volume,  which  is  to  show  the  pleasant  romance  that 
has  colored  the  lives  of  actors  and  actresses  of  true  quality 
and  genuine  order.  In  other  walks  of  life  there  is  a  certain 
selfishness  which  repels.  The  eminent  lawyer  or  physician, 
as  he  advances  to  the  foremost  position,  does  not  entertain 
as  he  moves.  The  actor  of  the  old  time,  who  spent  all  his 
life  interpreting  characters  in  great  comedies,,  and  who 

markable  kind,  and  for  its  brilliance,  expression,  and  intelligence,  almost 
deserves  a  place  beside  the  fine  old  theatrical  mezzotints  of  the  last  century. 
The  magic  of  this  effect  is  owing  to  the  constant  familiarity  of  the  actor 
with  an  intelligent  part,  which  has  impressed  itself  even  on  his  face  and 
bearing. 


THEATRICAL   MEMOIRS.  j~ 

every  night  found  his  intelligence  and  wit  spurred  by  a 
reciprocal  intelligence  and  wit  that  were  greater,  and  whose 
exertions  were  watched  and  checked  by  an  intelligent  audi- 
ence, most  have  been  an  interesting  being  with  gifts  quite 
exceptional.  Add  to  this  that  entering  on  the  profession 
was  like  starting  to  explore  some  wild  and  adventurous 
country;  there  were  no  agents,  few  provincial  theatres,  and 
but  two  great  ones  in  London,  admission  into  which  seemed 
as  remote  as  the  hope  of  die  Lord  Chancellorship  to  a  young 
barrister.  The  chance  of  success  was  desperate,  and  the 
weary  probation,  with  its  long  delays  and  hardships,  seemed 
to  require  all  the  shifts  and  talents  of  the  adventurer.  This 
makes  the  charm  of  the  crowd  of  theatrical  memoirs,  written 
chiefly  at  the  end  of  the  last  century  and  during  the  first 
twenty  years  of  the  present,  which  fill  many  a  shelf  in  the 
library.  These  show  that  the  actors  were  wits  and  humor- 
ists, pleasant  companions  at  the  tables  of  the  wise  and  great, 
travelers  and  writers ;  while  the  actresses  were  lovely  women , 
with  a  purpose  beyond  exhibiting  their  scantily-draped 
figures  in  tableaux  Ttvaafs,  where  they  become  insipid,  but 
striving  to  win  approbation  by  the  graces  of  intelligence, 
expression,  and  character.  Most  of  these  ladies  had  their 
history  and  offered  lives  of  curious  incident.  The  lives  of 
few  women  in  any  other  class  are  found  associated  with  such 
adventures.  Heroines  of  elopements  and  abductions — the 
causes  of  sanguinary  duels — the  pursued  of  men  of  rank 
and  fashion ;  now  rolling  in  wealth  and  magnificence  :  now 
carried  to  sponging-houses  and  sank  in  misery :  now  mixing 
with  wits  and  ladies  of  quality ;  now  the  favorites  of  kings 
and  princes — they  passed  through  all  the  most  opposite 
vicissitudes.  Actors  are  also  found  to  be  subject  to  the  same 
alternations  of  life — of  prosperity,  adversity,  and  misery — 
and  this  life  usually  presented  the  most  curious  complexions 
of  adventure.  It  is  strange  that  the  theatrical  history  of 

2* 


1 8  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

other  countries,  and  notably  of  France,  should  not  have 
the  same  adventurous  interest.  With  a  few  exceptions,  the 
lives  of  foreign  players  show  the  regular  and  perhaps  unin- 
teresting progression  found  in  other  professions.  But  a 
more  remarkable  difference  is  found  in  the  wealth  of  the- 
atrical memoirs  for  which  England  is  distinguished,  and 
which  make  a  very  characteristic  department  of  modern 
literature.  Its  attraction  is  indeed  increased  by  the  fact 
that  with  the  decay  of  acting  the  taste  for  writing  as  well 
as  for  reading  such  records  has  decayed  also,  and  though 
some  recent  actors  have  set  down  their  recollections,  these 
are  of  such  a  poor  and  meagre  sort,  wanting  in  color  and 
substance,  that  they  have  found  few  readers,  and  are  not 
worthy  of  a  great  support.  The  reason  of  this  would  appear 
to  be,  that  the  modern  actor's  life,  in  proportion  as  his  art 
has  fallen  away  from  the  old  high  ideal,  offers  nothing 
striking  or  genuine  ;  while  the  spurious  exhibitions  which 
now  engage  his  exertions  remove  him  altogether  from  op- 
portunities of  struggle  and  steady  honorable  advancement, 
the  record  of  which  it  would  be  interesting  to  read. 

It  is  indeed  extraordinary  the  variety  of  entertainment 
that  is  to  be  found  in  these  adventures.  Tate  Wilkinson, 
Mrs.  Bellamy,  Colman,  O'Keeffe,  Reynolds,  Geo.  Fred- 
erick Cooke,  Elliston,  and  Mathews  are  perhaps  the  most 
genuine  and  interesting  of  the  whole.  Wilkinson's  biog- 
raphy, taken  as  a  free,  unaffected  confession,  is  a  picture 
of  a  mind  revealing  itself  in  the  most  natural  way,  defying 
grammar  and  even  words  themselves,  and  taking  the  short- 
ost,  straightest,  readiest  way  to  unfold  his  thoughts.  The 
infinite  variety,  the  strange  language  and  ideas,  the  shrewd 
judgment  and  observations,  the  quaint  remarks,  and  the 
naive  revelation  of  mean  and  paltry  motives ;  with  the 
pleasant  sketches  of  the  manners  and  characters  of  the  day, 
— this  curious  compound,  entitled  "  Memoirs  of  Tate  Wil- 


THEATRICAL   MEMOIRS.  19 

kinson,"  in  three  volumes,  with  its  sequel,  "The  Wan- 
dering Patentee,"  also  in  three  volumes,  deserves,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  to  be  placed  first  in  rank.*  Reynolds  and 
O'Keeffe's  may  perhaps  be  placed  next,  written  in  a 
dashing,  jovial  style,  full  of  droll,  convivial  stories.  The 
valuable  portion  of  O'Keeffe's  memoirs  are  his  early 
recollections,  which  stretch  back  very  far,  especially  his 
sketches  of  the  old-world  manners,  which  are  done  pic- 
turesquely. The  younger  Colman's  are  entertaining,  and 
much  in  the  same  rollicking  key  as  Reynolds's,  but  they 
make  only  a  fragment  and  have  little  to  do  with  the  stage. 
Mrs.  Bellamy's  story  is  very  rambling,  and  at  times  inco- 
herent, but  it  is  full  of  details,  and  is  marked  by  that 
curious  token  of  the  garrulous  chronicler — an  exaggeration 
of  trifling  matters,  the  passing  by  or  suppression  of  impor- 
tant things.  It  exhibits  pictures  of  the  most  dismal  alter- 
nations in  a  beautiful  actress's  life — wealth,  splendor, 
jewels,  applause,  succeeded  by  disgrace,  bailiffs,  sponging- 
houses,  and  absolute  destitution.  A  pendant  for  which 
history  may  be  found  in  the  story  of  Mrs.  Baddeley,  an- 
other beautiful  actress,  but  a  woman  of  inferior  degree  in 
every  respect.  She  ran  a  wild,  dissipated  course,  with  the 
same  alternations  of  wealth  and  wretchedness,  the  jewels 
and  rich  dresses — being  succeeded  by  the  inevitable  bail- 
iffs and  the  sponging-house.  A  third  story — that  of  the 
handsome  Mrs.  Sumbel — offers  much  the  same  character ; 
but,  like  that  of  Mrs.  Baddeley,  is  but  fitfully  connected 
with  the  stage.  It  is  curious  that  ladies  of  this  description 
should  have  been  too  illiterate  to  write  their  own  stories, 
which  were  put  together,  under  their  direction,  by  some 
indifferent  hack  writers.  There  is,  however,  a  native  gen- 


*  At  this  moment  the  six  little  tomes   are  very  scarce,  especially  the 
sequel,  which  is  almost  i*tro*sa6U. 


20  THE    ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

nine  vulgarity  about  them,  and  a  rambling  incoherence, 
which  proves  that  they  were  dictated  or  inspired  by  the 
subjects  of  the  narratives.  Yet,  though  written  under  such 
conditions,  there  is  present  the  charm  of  candor  and  a 
certain  sincerity — an  eagerness  to  confess  too  much,  rather 
than  too  little.  In  the  more  modern  theatrical  memoirs 
there  is  an  affectation  and  restraint — a  wish  to  place  the 
narrator  in  the  best  view — to  which-  is  sacrificed  all  free- 
dom and  interest :  the  result,  indeed,  as  in  the  case  of  such 
specimens  as  the  "  Memoirs  of  Lee  Lewes"  and  "Edwin's 
Eccentricities,"  being  almost  blank.  Lee  Lewes,  as  Mr. 
Forster  notes,  was  well  acquainted  with  Goldsmith,  Gar- 
rick,  and  other  men  of  note — yet  there  is  not  a  single 
particular  about  them  in  his  book.  He  has  nothing  to  tell. 
His  mind  seems  to  have  been  of  the  "valet"  order,  and 
all  that  it  retained  were  some  low  green-room  stories,  with- 
out point  or  interest,  which  he  seems  to  have  retailed  over 
a  pipe  and  glass  to  the  Grub  Street  assistant  who  was  to 
fashion  them  into  a  book.  "The  Memoirs  of  Grimaldi," 
which  Mr.  Dickens  from  motives  of  good  nature  and 
charity  introduced  to  the  public,  are  perhaps  the  dullest 
of  this  class  >  and  though  written  with  diligence  and  care, 
show  effectually  that  there  is  a  prosy  side  to  stage  life,  and 
that  the  mere  annals  of  a  dramatic  career  are  more  un- 
interesting than  almost  anything  that  can  be  related. 
Mere  records  of  engagements,  new  plays,  and  characters 
performed,  seem  all-important  to  the  actor,  and  indeed 
ought  to  be,  in  one  sense ;  but  to  the  reader  such  are  bald 
and  unwelcome.  The  poorest  specimen  of  this  class  is 
perhaps  the  memoirs  of  one  Donaldson,  which,  though 
running  to  many  pages,  contains  little  or  nothing  of  recol- 
lection or  observation.  With  this  must  be  classed  the 
late  Paul  Bedford's  little  book,  which  has  some  droll 
stories,  but  nothing  of  the  least  importance.  The  memoirs 


THEATRICAL  MEMOIRS.  2J 

of  the  elder  Mathews,  by  his  widow,  are  little  more  than  a 
mass  of  materials  for  a  memoir — a  vast  number  of  letters, 
newspaper  cuttings,  and  "good  stories,"  which  swell  the 
whole  record  to  four  bulky  volumes,  and  make  nearly  2000 
pages  of  print.  Mrs.  Mathews  had  that  difiuseness  in  her 
style  which  belongs  to  the  stage — most  players  when 
writing  down  facetious  stories  expanding  the  description 
with  what  seem  to  them  droll  turns  of  their  own,  which 
are  perhaps  modeled  on  comic  passages  in  dramas.  Hoi- 
croft's  are  of  value,  being  written  by  a  trained  litterateur, 
and  offer  some  curious  alternations  of  fortune.  Raymond's 
"  Life  of  EUiston"  is  a  really  singular  book,  written  in  a 
style  congenial  to  the  eccentricities  of  its  hero,  which, 
though  often  transgressing  literary  taste  and  decorum, 
overflows  with  a  rollicking  spirit.  At  the  bottom  of  the 
list  must  be  placed  the  pretentious  memoirs  of  "  Harriet, 
Duchess  of  St.  Albans,"  by  Mrs.  Cornwell  Baron  Wilson 
— which  contain  very  little. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  particularize  all  that  has  been 
contributed  to  this  class  of  literature.  It  will  be  seen,  how- 
ever, from  what  is  now  about  to  be  presented  to  the  reader, 
that  the  incidents  of  the  player's  life — in  most  instances 
related  by  himself — offer  pleasant  entertainment. 


22  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

CHAPTER    II. 
THE  STROLLER'S  LIFE. 

THE  state  of  the  stage  about  one  hundred  years  ago,  and 
its  condition  at  present,  furnish  a  curious  contrast.  Now 
it  is  an  important  profession,  with  an  enormous  following. 
"Professionals"  are  to  be  counted  by  thousands,  and  thea- 
tres by  hundreds,  while  the  luxury  of  the  age  has  enlarged 
the  meaning  of  the  words  "the  stage,"  formerly  repre- 
senting only  what  was  purely  intellectual,  into  whatever 
can  entertain  the  eye  or  ear.  Everything,  indeed,  that 
can  be  produced  upon  a  raised  platform  so  as  to  be  conven- 
iently seen  by  a  large  crowd  seems  to  be  included  within 
,the  term  of  "the  stage."  The  shows  of  the  music-hall, 
gymnasts,  tumblers  and  grotesque  dancers,  jugglers,  de- 
lineators, mimics,  comic  singers — all  have  found  a  place 
upon  the  "stage";  while  decorators,  scene-painters,  ad- 
justers of  the  lime-light,  gas-men,  etc.,  form  distinct  and 
subsidiary  callings.  The  system  of  "farming"  has  devel- 
oped a  special  form  of  ability,  displued  in  the  contracting 
for  playbills,  in  dramatic  agency  and  touring  arrangements, 
advertising  and  the  like.  So  that,  in  fact,  it  may  be  said 
that  all  that  concerns  the  drama  has  grown  to  be  of  more 
importance  than  the  drama  itself. 

In  the  last  century  two  large  theatres,  and  a  small  house 
allowed  to  be  open  for  a  few  months  in  the  year,  were  all 
that  London  could  offer.  A  theatre  of  some  repute  at 
Bath,  the  two  Dublin  theatres,  and  one  at  Edinburgh, 
exhausted  the  list  of  first-class  theatres  in  the  kingdom. 
On  what  were  known  as  "  the  circuits" — the  York,  Liver- 


THE  STROLLERS  LIFE.  23 

pool,  and  others — were  found  a  number  of  small  houses, 
very  small  and  rude  in  their  appointments,  often  some 
"converted"  coach-house  or  chapel,  and  but  rarely  built 
for  the  purpose.  These  scarcely  deserved  the  name  of 
theatre,  and  were  indeed  only  shapes  more  commodious 
and  permanent  of  the  ordinary  barn  in  which  strollers 
performed.  Perhaps  a  couple  of  dozen  completed  the  list 
of  such  places.  To  make  the  contrast  more  striking,  there 
will  be  found  in  the  morning  papers  some  six  feet  of  theat- 
rical advertisement,  exhausting  every  device  of  claptrap 
and  self-commendation  to  call  attention  to  the  play  of  the 
night.  In  the  last  century  a  space  of  a  couple  of  inches 
square  was  all  that  was  necessary  to  carry  out  the  purpose 
of  such  an  announcement,  viz.,  to  declare  what  play  would 
be  performed  that  night  and  what  were  the  names  of  the 
actors. 

And  yet,  with  these  evidences  of  activity  in  our  day,  it 
may  be  safely  said  that  the  drama  of  the  last  century, 
though  deficient  in  playhouses,  advertisement,  lime-light, 
etc.,  occupied  a  larger  space  in  social  life,  had  more  influ- 
ence, and  filled  the  public  mind  more  satisfactorily  than 
does  the  huge  histrionic  organization  of  our  time.  This 
may  seem  something  of  a  paradox,  but  a  little  reflection 
will  show  its  truth.  Even  a  single  great  actor  or  actress — 
such  is  the  expansiveness  of  genius — is  in  himself  sufficient 
to  supply  ample  entertainment  to  a  whole  generation.  All 
can  find  opportunity  to  see  him,  just  as  nearly  even-  one 
of  ordinary  intellect  and  capacity  contrived  to  see  Mrs. 
Siddons  or  Garrick ;  and  the  result  in  the  shape  of  intel- 
lectual entertainment  was  more  profitable  and  less  costly 
than  the  present  bewildering  system.  Expense  and  show 
— costly  dresses,  etc.,  exhibited  under  strong  light — it  is 
now  discovered  with  som  -  ast  nis'  ment,  do  not  pay  so 
well  as  the  simple,  unadorned  gifts  of  a  simple  and  solitary 


24  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

player  of  ability.  The  "sensation"  drama,  which  half  a 
dozen  years  ago  was  the  rage,  has  palled  on  the  public  taste 
after  the  shortest  conceivable  reign  ;  while  a  strong-lunged 
tragedian  of  somewhat  coarse  power  travels  round  from 
one  provincial  theatre  to  another,  and  draws  vast  and 
tumultuous  audiences  to  hear  some  rude,  but  sound  per- 
formances of  the  legitimate  drama.  In  short,  at  some 
cost,  we  have  learned  the  lesson  that  "the  play's  the 
thing"  which  at  all  times  and  seasons  attracts  and  will 
attract;  while  shows  and  accessories,  however  magnificent, 
will  offer  but  limited  attractions,  and  these  only  for  the 
vulgar. 

It  is  curious  that  the  two  extremes  of  respect  and  con- 
tempt should  have  always  attended  the  stage,  though  it 
must  be  said  that  for  the  latter  the  stage  itself  is  mainly 
accountable.  In  the  presence  of  fine  acting,  respect,  dig- 
nity, awe,  admiration  are  excited  in  the  highest  degree; 
while  the  perverted  shapes  of  histrionic  exhibition  pro- 
duce a  curious  feeling  compounded  of  derision,  tedium, 
and  good-natured  toleration.  The  reason  of  this  would 
seem  to  be,  that  where  vast  publicity  is  invited  the  respon- 
sibility and  risk  are  in  the  same  proportion,  and  the  con- 
trast between  the  quality  of  the  entertainment  and  the 
conspicuous  position  in  which  it  is  presented  at  once  chal- 
lenges a  sort  of  contempt.  Hence  the  low  estimation  in 
which  those  theatrical  Pariahs  known  as  STROLLERS  have 
always  been  held;  the  very  name  being  one  of  deprecia- 
tion. 

Strollers  were  the  first  in  the  line  of  those  spurious 
representatives  of  the  drama,  whose  connection  with  it 
does  not  go  beyond  the  art  of  self-exhibition ;  and  their 
legitimate  successors  are  surely  the  race  of  burlesque  per- 
formers or  mimics,  with  such  actors  as  try  to  extort  laugh- 


THE  STROLLER'S  LIFE. 


-5 


ter  by  gags,  antics,  and  devices  which  have  no  connection 
with  the  character  in  hand.  It  might  seem  odd  that  the 
strollers,  who,  after  all,  honestly  strove  to  cany  out  their 
purpose  according  to  such  lights  as  they  enjoyed,  should 
have  encountered  such  obloquy.  But  it  was  felt  that  the 
publicity  they  sought  should  be  supported  by  more  than 
good  intentions,  and  that  ability  and  training  at  least 
should  be  present.  The  immediate  cause  of  the  contempt 
that  pursued  them  was  the  absurd  contrast  offered  between 
the  grand  characters  they  undertook — the  kings,  queens, 
heroes,  etc. — the  noble  sentiments  they  uttered,  and  the 
wretched  supporters  of  these  characters.  And  in  justice 
it  must  be  said,  that  audiences  were  not  so  much  affected 
by  the  meagre  and  squalid  accessories,  which  were  out  of 
keeping  with  the  regal  and  heroic  state  presented,  as  by 
the  discrepancy  between  the  actor's  abilities  and  the  part 
he  represented. 

The  incidents  of  the  strollers'  life — their  poverty,  mean 
shifts,  "the  candle  ends,"  the  desperate  straits  for  food 
and  clothes — have  furnished  satirists  and  caricaturists  with 
some  of  their  most  effective  pictures — the  subject  offering 
infinite  opportunity  for  humorous  treatment.  Churchill, 
Scarron,  and  Hogarth  have  reveled  in  these  details,  and 
left — the  first  specially — a  pitiless  dissection  of  these  in- 
firmities. His  scathing  lines  will  be  remembered;  and 
indeed  nothing  more  inviting  in  the  way  of  bitter  satire 
could  be  conceived  than  the  stroller,  who  was  classed  by 
the  village  constables  with  gypsies  and  vagabonds,  and  who 
was  generally  some  youth  who  had  run  away  from  the 
counter  or  the  desk  to  lay  rude  hands  on  Shakespeare. 

It  is  almost  painful  to  follow  the  tale  of  humiliations 

which  made  up  the  career  of  these  hapless  creatures.     It 

would  almost  seem  that  no  class  of  the  community  ever 

passed  through  such  a  probation  to  earn  miserable  and 

B  3 


26  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

uncertain  wages.  Yet,  after  all,  the  grand  ideal  was  before 
them,  like  an  ignis  fatuus,  and  sustained  the  genuine  pro- 
bationer: the  more  earthly  followers  found  themselves 
hopelessly  committed  and  could  not  draw  back.  To  have 
been  a  stroller  was  a  fatal  hindrance  to  any  other  calling, 
while  the  shifty  character  of  the  life  hopelessly  demoralized 
inferior  natures.  On  the  other  hand,  no  finer  probation 
could  be  conceived  for  the  sincere  student  who  was  pos- 
sessed of  real  theatrical  genius.  To  such  preparation 
Kemble  and  Siddons  and  Kean  owed  half  their  later 
triumphs. 

The  mortifications  and  hardships  of  the  tribe  were  end- 
less. The  memoirs  are  full  of  stories  of  their  being  hunted 
by  beadles  from  towns  and  villages— of  their  lying  in  bed 
till  night,  their  ordinary  clothes  being  seized  by  the  land- 
lady for  rent — of  their  pulling  up  turnips  in  convenient 
fields  to  stay  their  hunger ;  and  a  fair  idea  of  the  profit  to 
be  gained  by  this  calling  may  be  gathered  from  the  not 
^infrequent  sharing  of  the  night's  receipts  among  the  mem- 
bers of  the  company,  viz.,  a  shilling  and  "  six  pieces  of 
candle  ends"  falling  to  each.*  But  Stephen  Kemble  told 
the  late  Mr.  John  Taylor  a  story  which,  though  trifling,  is 
profoundly  significant  of  what  used  to  be  the  social  esti- 
mation of  the  stroller.  "  He  once  told  me,"  he  says, 
"  that  while  he  was  walking  in  a  town  -in  Ireland  with  the 
mayor,  who  honored  him  with  his  arm,  one  of  the  inferior 
actors  bowed  to  the  magistrate  with  the  most  obsequious 
humility,  but  did  not  attract  any  notice.  The  man  then 

*  "  I  remember,"  said  Mr.  King  in  the  green-room  of  Drury-lane,  "  that 
when  I  had  been  a  short  time  on  the  stage  I  performed  one  night  King 
Richard,  gave  two  comic  songs,  played  in  an  interlude,  danced  a  hornpipe, 
spoke  a  prologue,  afterwards  harlequin,  in  a  sharing  company ;  and,  after 
all  this  fatigue,  my  share  came  to  threepence  and  two  pieces  of  candle." — 
Everard ' s  Memoirs,  p.  62. 


THE  STROLLER'S  LIFE. 


-1 


ran  before  them,  and  at  another  convenient  spot  repeated 
his  humiliating  obeisance.  Still,  however,  he  was  passed 
without  observation.  Again  he  ran  to  a  place  where  he 
thought  he  was  more  likely  to  draw  attention,  but  was 
equally  unsuccessful.  Anxious  to  testify  his  respect  for  the 
mayor,  he  tried  again  at  another  convenient  point,  mani- 
festing, if  possible,  a  more  obsequious  courtesy.  At  length 
the  obduracy  of  the  mayor  softened,  though  not  subdued 
in  pride  ;  he  turned  his  head  to  look  at  the  persevering 
actor,  but  without  even  a  nod  of  recognition,  and  hastily 
uttered,  '  I  see  you,  I  see  you,'  which  the  poor  actor 
considered  as  an  act  of  gracious  condescension." 

Many  of  these  strollers  who  afterwards  attained  a  respect- 
able position  on  the  stage,  have  told  the  history  of  their 
early  trials  with  the  utmost  frankness ;  indeed,  seeming  to 
look  back  with  a  sort  of  good-humor  to  the  very  serious 
privations  of  this  period  of  their  lives.  Bernard,  who  was 
secretary  to  the  extinct  Beefsteak  Club,  has  left  some  very 
entertaining  recollections  of  this  kind,  while  Ryley,  a  pro- 
fessed "itinerant,"  as  he  called  himself,  has,  in  very  ram- 
bling style,  given  a  rude  but  truthful  picture  of  the  coarser 
side  of  such  experiences.  There  was  a  dismal  uniformity 
in  these  reports.  The  eager  neophyte  who  had  run  away 
to  join  the  profession  was  invariably  confounded  at  finding 
the  manager  some  low,  ill-kept,  ill-dressed  personage  of 
the  coarsest  manners,  dashed  with  a  singular  eccentricity, 
which,  oddly  enough,  seemed  inseparable  from  a  position 
of  command.  He  found  the  company  in  a  state  of  help- 
less destitution,  the  terms  of  engagement  usually  being 
either  "on  salary,"  when  the  performer  was  to  receive 
about  eight  or  nine  shillings  a  week,  or  "on  sharings," 
when  his  gains  were  to  be  speculative.  In  either  case,  the 
result  was  generally  of  the  same  disastrous  kind.  After 
the  first  week  there  was  no  salary,  and  the  company,  in 


2 8  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

debt  to  the  whole  village,  were  told  they  must  share  and 
"  take  what  was  going."  Or,  if  they  had  originally  elected 
to  share,  the  six  candle  ends  and  a  few  pence  were  impar- 
tially distributed  among  them.  There  were  always  loud 
murmurs  and  hostility  to  the  manager,  who  was  often  sus- 
pected of  fraud,  he  claiming  so  many  shares  for  his  scenery, 
dresses,  etc.  But  in  most  instances  this  was  unjust,  as  he 
was  usually  the  most  destitute  of  the  party.  Indeed,  the 
manager's  almost  invariable  embarrassment  was  to  find  an 
embargo  laid  upon  his  scenes  and  dresses  for  debt,  while 
his  actors  were  expecting  their  wages  from  him  with  which 
to  pay  their  over-due  lodging  and  board.  They  were  thus 
unable  to  set  out  for  the  next  town  where  races  and  assizes 
were  going  on,  and  where  there  was  some  faint  hope  that 
cash  might  come  in.  In  this  dead-lock  an  arrangement 
was  usually  come  to  :  some  trunks  and  dresses  were  left  as 
a  security,  or  the  most  confiding  member  of  the  party  was 
induced  to  advance  a  few  hoarded  pounds.  The  sufferings 
of  the  members  of  the  corps  were  yet  more  severe ;  they 
had  to  extricate  themselves  as  best  they  could.  Indeed, 
the  life  of  these  poor  wayfarers  seemed  to  be  uncolored 
by  anything  but  hardship  and  persecution,  and  it  seems 
amazing  how  it  could  have  had  the  slightest  attraction. 
But  their  perseverance  and  endurance,  worthy  of  a  higher 
reward,  could  only  have  been  supported  by  the  hope  of 
passing  through  all  this  squalor  and  privation  to  the  grand 
goal  which  lay  at  the  end. 

Everything  seemed  to  conspire  to  degrade  the  follower 
of  the  rickety  Thespian  cart.  In  time  he  was  found  com- 
peting for  the  office  of  "  orator,"  as  it  was  called — or  bill- 
distributor — which  in  the  town  or  village  was  entitled  to 
be  remunerated  by  a  shilling,  in  the  country  by  two.  The 
duties  of  this  office  consisted  in  waiting  on  the  hucksters 
and  shopkeepers,  in  opening  relations  with  the  butlers  and 


THE  STROLLERS  LIFE. 


-9 


footmen  at  "  great  houses,"  who  were  to  contrive  to  bring 
these  programmes  to  the  notice  of  the  owners.  Any  one 
who  would  follow  the  shifts  and  degradations  of  the  call- 
ing will  find  them  set  out  in  the  dismal  narrative  of  "  an 
unfortunate  son  of  Thespis,"  by  one  Edward  Everard. 
There  he  will  follow  the  poor  stroller  walking  from  town 
— his  wife  "lying  in"  on  the  way — defrauded  by  mana- 
gers, bullied  by  roughs,  receiving  little  glimpses  of  hope 
when  Sir  Sydney  Smith,  or  "  Lord  Erskine's  brother,  the 
Hon.  Henry  Erskine,"  allowed  his  name  to  be  put  at  the 
top  of  the  bill :  now  with  Mr.  Thornton,  who  "  managed 
sixteen  theatres;"  now  with  "Jemmy  Whitely,"  who 
goes  off  with  his  pockets  full  of  money,  and  leaves  "  the 
sharers"  without  a  farthing.  In  a  company  "  at  Evesham 
in  the  vale,  pleasant  in  itself,  but  not  so  to  us,  with  about 
eighteen  men,  twelve  women,  three  good  and  constant 
musicians,  handsome  scenes  and  superb  dresses,  I  did  not 
get  four  shillings  a  week.  Mr.  Durrivan,  a  man  possessed 
of  a  happy,  dry  humor,  made  me  laugh  one  night  when  I 
observed  to  him  that  he  had  got  on  a  most  elegant  rich 
suit  of  clothes.  '  Ay,'  said  he,  lifting  up  the  flap  of  his 
vest,  which  covered  his  knees,  and  the  crimson  velvet 
could  scarcely  be  seen  for  the  gold  lace  and  spangles — 'Ay ! 
starving  in  pomp  /'  "  The  poor  wretches  struggled  on,  yet 
sometimes  found  a  Samaritan. 

One  of  these  well-experienced  highway  managers,  one 
Ryley,  whose  nine  volumes  have  become  almost  introuva- 
blf,  tells  the  story  of  their  trials  very  simply  and  nat- 
urally. And  indeed  it  is  worth  noting  how  these  poor 
adventurers  battled  on  in  the  face  of  reverses  which  would 
have  crushed  another  who  was  of  a  different  profession. 
The  reader  will  notice  in  all  these  confessions  a  rude  but 
satisfactory  form  of  expression,  as  though  their  sufferings 
came  back  on  them  vividly  as  they  wrote,  and  caused  the 
3* 


3o  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

words  to  crowd  to  their  lips.     He  thus  describes  strolling 
management : — 

"  I  had  been  scarcely  a  month  or  so  there,  before  they 
had  to  throw,  as  was  customary,  for  the  benefits.  I  wished 
to  decline,  alleging  the  short  time  I  had  been  in  the  com- 
pany, and  that  there  was  no  partner  to  go  with  me  ;  then 
being  told  that  the  nights  were  all  fixed,  and  that  I  could 
possibly  have  no  other  chance ;  at  last  reluctantly  I  con- 
sented, and,  as  ill  chance  would  have  it,  won  the  first 
night.  As  I  had  purposely  been  laid  on  the  shelf,  a  little 
vanity,  more  than  the  hopes  of  gain,  urged  me  to  ven- 
ture ;  the  trouble  and  any  additional  expense  I  knew  must 
be  all  my  own,  and,  if  there  should  be  any  profit,  I  had 
to  share  it  with  an  undeserving  set ;  I  therefore  took  no 
pains  about  it.  I  flattered  myself  that  I  should  have  an 
opportunity  of  showing  myself  to  some  advantage,  which, 
in  the  end,  might  answer  some  end,  and  that  I  should 
have  the  secret  satisfaction  of  mortifying  them  a  little  in 
iriy  turn.  As  I  foresaw,  so  it  fell  out ;  there  was  hardly 
the  bare  nightly  charges.  After  playing  Touchstone, 
Young  Philpot,  and  dancing,  I  went  home  penniless.  I 
had  lodged  and  boarded  with  an  old  woman,  who  kept  a 
creditable  public  house;  she  was  at  the  play;  I  was  unavoid- 
ably in  her  debt.  I  never  was  more  cast  down  and  dis- 
pirited ;  I  could  with  difficulty  muster  c&urage  to  open  the 
door.  When  I  entered,  I  shall  never  forget  my  reception. 
I  believe  she  saw  my  backwardness.  'Come,  come  along,' 
says  she ;  '  bless  your  dear  little  legs. '  This  was  a  wonderful 
cordial  to  my  drooping  spirits ;  I  never  stood  in  greater 
need  of  one  ;  but  she  nor  her  husband  would  be  satisfied, 
till  out  of  his  friendly  bottle  I  had  taken  two  cordials;  then 
told  me  there  was  a  little  fowl  just  boiled  and  ready  for  my 
supper;  not  to  be  uneasy  about  anything,  but  make  myself 
comfortable ;  adding,  '  I  see  now  plainly  the  reason  of 


THE  STROLLER'S  LIFE.  3I 

some  of  them  backbiting  you,  but  they  will  be  glad  now 
to  come  cap  in  hand  to  you.'  Her  words  proved  true; 
for  next  morning,  early,  two  of  my  greatest  enviers  waited 
on  me,  to  request  that  I  would  play  a  particular  character, 
and  dance  for  their  benefit  the  next  night.  My  good 
landlady  told  them  their  own.  I  confess  I  secretly  tri- 
umphed in  my  turn,  and  then,  being  fully  satisfied,  com- 
plied with  every  one's  desire  till  the  last  night :  the 
manager  told  me  next  morning,  that  all  the  scenes  and 
dresses  must  be  taken  down  and  packed  up  and  sent  to 
Stamford  the  next  day,  but  that  as  I  had  had  no  benefit, 
and  done  so  much  for  the  company,  they  had  all  made  an 
offer  to  stop  and  play  next  night  gratis,  for  my  benefit,  if, 
under  such  circumstances,  I  could  do  anything.  I  gave 
out  and  performed  the  'Stratagem*  and  'Lying  Valet,"  to 
about  ten  pounds,  under  every  disadvantage,  and  my 
whole  expenses  did  not  amount  to  ten  shillings." 

"The  sharing  plan,"  says  the  manager  Ryley,  "was 
always  my  aversion  ;  to  remedy  this  I  made  a  proposal  to 
try  the  town  of  Ludlow  upon  small  salaries  of  half  a  guinea, 
fifteen  shillings,  and  a  guinea,  according  to  the  merit  and 
utility  of  the  different  performers.  This  was  cheerfully 
agreed  to,  and  we  arrived  in  safety  at  this  romantically 
picturesque  place. 

"  Having  fixed  my  wife  and  little  Fanny  in  a  delightfully 
rural  lodging,  I  thought  it  behoved  me  to  pay  attention 
to  'the  property,'  which  was  on  its  way.  Accordingly  I 
walked  towards  the  suburbs  leading  to  Worcester,  in  hopes 
of  meeting  the  wagons  which  contained  the  scenery,  ward- 
robe, etc.  At  the  entrance  of  the  town  I  observed  a  con- 
course of  people  collected  round  a  four-wheeled  carriage 
which  moved  slowly,  and  on  its  approach  I  found  to  my 
surprise  it  was  'the  property';  and  such  an  exhibition! 
Had  the  carter  endeavored  to  excite  a  mob  he  could  not 


32  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

have  done  it  more  effectually  than  by  the  manner  in 
which  he  had  packed  the  load.  Some  scenes  and  figures 
belonging  to  a  pantomime  lay  on  the  top  of  the  boxes,  which 
were  numerous,  and  piled  very  high.  To  keep  them  steady 
he  had  placed  a  door  on  which  was  painted  in  large  char- 
acters '  Tom's  Punch  House'  in  front  of  the  wagon ;  this 
soon  gave  a  title  to  the  whole.  Upon  the  uppermost  box 
and  right  over  the  door  was  a  giant's  head  of  huge  dimen- 
sions, whose  lower  jaw,  being  elastic  hung,  opened  with 
every  jolt  of  the  carriage.  By  the  side  of  this  tremendous 
head  rode  our  large  mastiff,  who,  enraged  at  the  shouts  of 
the  mob,  barked  and  bellowed  forth  vengeance. 

"  The  letters  on  the  door  had  of  course  stamped  it  for  a 
puppet-show,  to  corroborate  which  the  impudent  carter, 
somewhat  in  liquor,  had  placed  a  pasteboard  helmet  on  his 
head,  whilst  with  awkward  gesticulation  he  thumped  an  old 
tambourine,  to  the  no  small  amusement  of  the  spectators. 
To  finish  the  farcical  physiognomy  of  this  fascinating  group, 
Bonny  Long,  his  wife,  and  nine  children,  sat  in  the  rear, 
Bonny  in  a  large  cocked  hat,  his  wife  with  a  child  at  her 
breast,  wrapped  in  a  Scotch  plaid,  a'nd  the  other  eight  in 
Httle  red  jackets.  As  soon  as  I  beheld  the  comic  effect 
produced  by  this  tout  ensemble,  I  slipped  down  a  back  street. 
I  was  waiting  at  the  theatre  with  some  impatience,  when 
the  stage-keeper  came  running  to  inform  me  that  the  wagon 
was  overturned  and  Mr.  Long  killed.  In  an  instant  1  was 
on  the  spot,  and  sure  enough  there  lay  the  contents  of  the 
cart,  and  Bonny  Long  under  the  whole.  The  crowd  had 
considerably  increased  ;  some  were  humanely  employed  'in 
lifting  off  boxes  in  order  to  release  the  sufferer,  others  sup- 
ported his  wife,  who,  though  safe  from  the  fall,  was  in  fits 
for  the  fate  of  her  husband,  whilst  the  eight  little  brats  in 
scarlet  jackets  ran  about  like  dancing  dogs  prepared  for  a 
stage  exhibition.  Poor  Long  was  at  length  liberated  with 


THE  STROLLER'S  LIFE. 


33 


no  other  inconvenience  than  what  was  occasioned  by  the 
suffocating  dust  arising  from  the  old  scenes,  which  had 
completely  preserved  him  from  the  pressure  of  the  boxes. 
The  only  misfortune  this  accident  caused  was  the  death  of 
our  watchful  mastiff.  This  noble  creature,  when  the  wagon 
overturned,  kept  the  men  at  bay  lest  his  master's  property 
should  be  purloined,  till  a  blacksmith,  who  had  been  drawn 
from  his  anvil  and  stood  gazing  with  the  sledge-hammer  on 
his  shoulder,  gave  the  poor  animal  a  blow  behind  the  ear 
which  put  a  sudden  period  to  his  existence.  This  callous 
Cyclops  was  at  my  suit  arraigned  on  the  following  day  be- 
fore a  magistrate,  who  acquitted  him  on  the  blacksmith's 
plea  of  self-defense. 

"  The  theatre  was  a  miserably  poor  place,  and  when 
filled  would  scarcely  contain  twenty  pounds.  We  opened 
it  the  following  Monday  with  the  comedy  of  '  The  Beaux' 
Stratagem.'  The  receipts  amounted  to  five  pounds,  and 
though  the  company  were  much  reduced,  I  found  a  contin- 
uance of  such  receipts  would  disable  me  from  paying  the 
salaries.  The  second  and  third  nights  were  not  much  bet- 
ter, and  the  third  week  I  found  myself  under  the  unpleasant 
necessity  of  addressing  the  company  and  placing  them  on 
the  old  establishment.  The  houses  instead  of  improving 
went  from  bad  to  worse ;  dissatisfaction  generally  prevailed 
— '  the  sharing  was  not  an  existence.'  This  I  very  readily 
allowed,  but  surely  no  blame  could  be  attached  to  me :  in 
vain  I  urged  the  small  receipts  and  heavy  disbursements. 
One  more  witty  than  the  rest  chose*  to  exercise  his  humor 
at  my  expense,  and  on  the  following  day  was  seen  walking 
down  with  his  five-shilling  share  in  a  canvas  purse  at  the 
end  of  his  stick  placed  over  his  right  shoulder ;  jocularly 
informing  every  one  who  inquired,  that  his  last  week's 
share  was  so  heavy  his  arm  ached  with  its  weight.  This 
sarcasm  hurt  me  greatly.  Ludlow  races  now  approached 


34  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

and  great  expectations  were  formed :  overflowing  houses 
were  promised,  and  I  vainly  hoped  it  would  be  in  my  power 
to  make  amends  for  the  miserable  pittance  they  had  hitherto 
received.  Bui  here,  as  in  most  of  my  undertakings,  for- 
tune dashed  down  the  cup  of  hope  just  as  I  was  raising  it 
to  my  lips — on  the  first  race  night  a  ball  opposed  the  the- 
atre, and  the  receipts  were  so  trifling  it  was  not  thought 
proper  to  perform.  To  make  amends  for  this  I  applied  to 
the  stewards  to  patronize  the  next  night,  but  this  could  not 
be  effected ;  the  grand  ordinary  dinner  was  to  be  that 
evening,  and  would  detain  the  company  till  a  late  hour. 
As  there  were  only  two  days'  races  I  was  now  at  my  wits' 
end :  the  only  probable  way  of  drawing  them  to  the  the- 
atre was  to  perform  in  the  morning.  Again  I  waited  on 
the  stewards  and  obtained  their  consent  and  promised 
attendance.  Accordingly  the  '  Castle  of  Andalusia'  was 
advertised  by  desire  of  the  stewards  of  the  race,  to  begin 
at  eleven  o'clock.  This  new  and  unpleasant  time  of  per- 
formance was  particularly  irksome — to  shut  out  daylight 
and  to  substitute  candles  for  the  glorious  sun  on  a  hot  sum- 
mer's morn  appeared  little  better  than  sacrilege ;  but  there 
was  no  alternative  between  this  and  empty  benches.  The 
time  arrived,  and  with  this  astonishing  patronage  we  raised 
eleven  pounds.  The  benefits  were  now  our  only  resource, 
and  even  that  bore  a  melancholy  aspect!" 

He  now  changes  the  scene: — 

"At  this  time  I  received  a  letter  from  Mr.  Smith,  one 
of  the  proprietors  of  tRe  Wolverhampton  theatre,  couched 
in  terms  of  strong  persuasion  ;  he  was  certain,  if  I  brought 
my  company  to  the  fair,  receipts  could  not  be  less  than  two 
hundred  pounds.  This  was  a  strong  temptation  :  I  con- 
'sulted  the  performers.  They  were  as  sanguine  as  myself, 
and,  as  I  never  looked  on  the  dark  side  of  things,  I  speedily 
embarked  in  this  troublesome  and  expensive  undertaking ; 


THE  STROLLER'S  LIFE.  35 

bat  the  anxiety  of  mind  that  attended  the  removal  of  this 
unfortunate  company,  with  their  still  more  unfortunate 
manager,  is  indescribable.  We  arrived  without  accident, 
and  the  theatre  was  advertised  to  open  on  the  Monday. 
Had  I  been  as  well  acquainted  as  I  am  now  with  the 
description  of  people  who  attend  Mrs,  especially  merry- 
making fairs,  1  should  never  have  undertaken  this  disas- 
trous journey.  Three,  four,  and  five  pounds  were  the 
customary  receipts.  In  a  state  of  mind  bordering  on  dis- 
traction I  went  over  to  Birmingham,  and,  by  way  <& forcing*. 
house  for  the  last  night,  engaged  Messrs.  Grist,  Banks,  and 
Barrymore  to  perform  in  •  Othello'  and  *  Rosina/  for  which 
I  was  to  give  them  each  a  guinea  and  pay  the  chaise-hire. 
The  receipts  of  that  night,  with  all  this  great  acting, 
amounted  to  seven  pounds I ' !  out  of  which  I  had  to  pay 
these  gentlemen  three  guineas,  besides  traveling  expenses !  1 3 
I  have  known  actors,  ay  and  poor  ones  too,  who  would 
have  received  the  three  guineas  with  some  appearance  of 
regret;  nay,  there  are  those  who  would  not  have  taken 
them  at  all :  but  these  great  people  were  superior  to  such 
little  prejudices.  They  not  only  received  them  with  ease 
and  good-humor,  but  the  greatest  man  of  the  three  made  a 
famous  good  story  of  it,  to  the  great  delight  of  his  audi- 
tors, in  the  Birmingham  green-room  next  day.  Yet  so 
blind  was  I  to  the  narrowness  of  this  conduct,  that  the 
supper  bill  (no  small  one,  it  may  be  supposed,  when  'tis 
recollected  who  composed  the  party)  I  discharged  under 
the  idea  of  gentlemanly  hospitality — a  prejudice  which 
ought  to  have  died  with  my  shipwrecked  fortune.  The 
hour  of  departure  arrived,  and  thirty  pounds,  the  whole 
of  the  week's  receipts,  were  all  that  I  had  to  satisfy  the 
actors,  by  lending  each  a  little,  and  a  long  trafn  of  inci- 
dental expenses  incurred  by  the  journey,  besides  chaises  to 
carry  us  back,  and  maintenance  on  the  road.  This  was 


3 6  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

the  greatest  difficulty  I  had  ever  experienced ;  to  wait  upon 
the  different  tradesmen  with  apologies  instead  of  money 
was,  to  a  man  of  my  temperament,  grating  beyond  all 
description.  However,  there  was  no  alternative :  when  I 
told  my  story,  they  were  gentle  and  kind,  and  would 
patiently  wait  my  own  time  of  payment.  Credit  for  chaises 
to  transport  us  back  was  likewise  cheerfully  granted,  and 
we  left  Wolverhampton,  after  this  inauspicious  week,  minus 
about  fifty  pounds. 

"The  benefits  commenced  at  Ludlow,  and  each  per- 
former managed  to  clear  a  trifle ;  but  Bonny  Long  outdid 
them  all.  As  soon  as  his  benefit  was  announced  Mrs. 
Long  washed  her  eight  children  and  dressed  them  in  the 
scarlet  spencers  which  never  made  their  appearance  ex- 
cept at  benefits  and  their  first  arrival  in  a  town.  At  the 
head  of  this  little  tribe  she  paraded  the  streets,  in  her 
Scotch  plaid,  with  a  large  bundle  of  playbills,  and  solicited 
custom  at  every  respectable  dwelling.  The  novelty  of 
these  little  red  runabouts,  added  to  the  good-humor  and 
affability  of  the  father,  brought  an  overflowing  house ; 
and  so  much  was  honest  Bonny  respected,  there  was  not 
an  individual  in  the  theatre  who  did  not  rejoice  in  his  suc- 
cess." 

Other  seasons  equally  disastrous  follow  : — 
"  Gloucester. — By  way  of  raising  Tone  decent  house,  I 
endeavored  to  get  a  play  patronized ;  and,  as  luck  would 

have  it,  the  Earl  of and  several  persons  of  distinction 

were  then  at  the  Hop  Pole,  where  I  understood  they  in- 
tended to  remain  a  few  days.  This  incident  completely 
routed  the  blue  devils,  who  had  of  late  been  my  constant 
companions.  I  dressed  myself  in  a  handsome  suit  of 
black,  with  my  best  laced  ruffles ;  my  hair  was  put  in  the 
most  exact  trim,  and  into  Fossegate  Street  I  bent  my  way. 
I  have  always  remarked  that  the  time  to  carry  a  point 


THE  STROLLER'S  LIFE.  37 

which  depends  merely  on  good-humor  is  about  half  an 
hour  after  the  cloth  is  drawn :  I  hit  this  period  to  a  nicety. 
I  followed  a  puppy-looking  servant  upstairs ;  I  heard  him 
announce  me  as  Mr.  Romney,  manager  of  the  theatre ; 
upon  which  the  whole  company  burst  into  an  immoderate 
fit  of  laughter,  at  the  same  time  repeating  the  word  '  man- 
ager *'  in  a  manner  that  gave  me  to  understand  they  enter- 
tained no  great  reverence  for  the  character.  'Oh,  the 
ma-na-ger !'  continued  his  drawling  Lordship,  when  laugh- 
ter would  permit ;  '  show  the  manager  in.  We  shall  have 
some  fun,  my  Lady.'  Filled  with  contempt,  I  was  turning 
to  make  a  precipitate  retreat,  when  the  servant  threw  open 
the  door  and  discovered  me.  *  Walk  in,  Mr.  Ma-na-ger !' 
cried  his  Lordship,  nodding  significantly  at  a  baronet  who 
sat  at  the  bottom  of  the  table  and  was  leisurely  picking  his 
teeth.  A  degree  of  disappointment  was  apparent.  I  dare 
say  they  had  painted  the  manager  as  a  motley-dressed  man 
adorned  with  tinsel,  who  would  servilely  cringe  and  bow 
for  the  favor  of  being  insulted  by  such  honorable  brutes. 
Perceiving  their  mistake,  with  a  bold  steady  step  I  walked 
up  to  my  Lord  and  laid  before  him  a  list  of  plays.  '  Oh 
ay !  Plays.  My  Lady,  will  you  bespeak  a  play?'—4  Why 
really,  my  Lord,  I  have  no  idea  of  strollers — pray,  Mr. 
Manager,  what  sort  of  a  set  are  yours?'  During  this  time 
her  Ladyship's  eye,  through  a  quizzing  glass,  was  fixed 
upon  me  with  steady  effrontery.  The  baronet  asked, 
'  Have  you  any  fine  girls  in  your  troop,  Mr.  What's-your- 
name?'  " 

After  more  of  this  treatment  he  made  an  indignant 
protest  and  retired.  When  he  reached  home  he  found  a 
note  from  one  of  the  ladies  of  the  part)',  complimenting 
him  on  his  spirit  and  inclosing  ten  pounds. 

His  cheerfulness  and  perseverance  were  at  last  rewarded, 
and  he  emerged  from  this  life  of  shifts  and  degradation. 


3  8  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

Though  he  never  was  "well  off,"  he  was  removed  from 
want,  and  was  often  kindly  assisted  by  higher  members  of 
the  profession. 

To  this  grotesque  race  of  strolling  managers  belonged 
"Jemmy  Whitely"  and  Penchard,  of  whom  most  leading 
players  had  stories  to  tell.  There  was  a  family  likeness  in 
their  peculiarities;  shifts  and  habitual  debts  and  diffi- 
culties encourage  a  habit  of  wheedling  and  jocosity,  in- 
tended to  humor  the  pressing  creditor ;  and  this  treatment, 
being  sometimes  found  successful,  may  have  been  fostered 
by  practice.  Gentlemen  "who  live  by  their  wits,"  as  it 
is  called,  have  found  this  manner  a  valuable  auxiliary. 
Mr.  Bernard  thus  describes  one  of  the  fraternity : — 

"  I  was  now,"  he  says,  "  introduced  to  a  room  fitted  up 
in  an  inn,  and  Manager  Penchard.  Here  was  the  old 
system  of  paper  wings,  hoop  chandelier,  superannuated 
scenery — fiddler,  property-man,  and  lamp-lighter  identical, 
with  a  company  five  in  number,  the  first  and  worst  of 
whom  was  the  manager  himself. 

"  Mr.  Penchard  had  been  a  manager  fifty  years,  and, 
for  that  reason,  continued  to  play  all  the  juvenile  charac- 
ters. He  was  very  tall,  but  stooped  through  infirmity. 
The  gout  was  in  both  his  legs,  Shakespeare  in  his  head, 
and  money  in  his  heart.  He  was  a  determined  miser,  and 
an  actor  by  confederacy,  that  is,  wifh  the  assistance  of  a 
remarkable  peruke,  which  had  been  worn,  as  he  averred, 
by  Colley  Gibber  in  'The  Fops.'  It  was  such  a  wig  as 
would  now  grace  the  head  of  a  Lord  Chief  Justice ;  and 
in  this,  I  was  informed,  he  played  the  whole  round  of 
his  characters— Hamlet,  Don  Felix,  Lord  Townley,  and 
Zanga;  so  that  he  had  obtained  the  familiar  title  through- 
out England  of  'Penchard  and  his  Wig.'  On  our  way  to 
his  lodgings  we  were  met  by  a  member  of  the  company, 
who  knew  Scott,  and  begged  to  join  us,  as  he  had  a 


THE  STROLLER'S  LIFE. 


39 


favor  to  ask  of  his  superior,  which  might  not  otherwise  be 
granted. 

"  On  reaching  the  house,  we  were  shown  upstairs  into  a 
dark,  dingy,  narrow  little  room,  with  a  bed  in  one  corner 
and  an  immense  chest  in  the  other.  We  found  the  manager 
seated  in  an  elbow-chair,  muffled  in  a  morning-gown,  which 
looked  like  an  adaptation  of  a  Venetian  tunic,  by  the  side 
of  a  three-legged  table  at  which  he  was  eating  his  breakfast. 
This  meal  consisted  of  a  halfpenny  roll  and  a  halfpenny- 
worth of  milk.  At  our  entrance,  he  slightly  inclined  his 
head,  with  a  '  Good-morning,  gentlemen,'  and  continued 
his  meal,  leaving  us  upon  our  legs — but  I  forget,  there  were 
no  more  chairs  in  the  room.  Mr.  Scott  then  introduced 
me  to  him ;  and  the  manager  commenced  a  conversation 
by  giving  me  some  valuable  advice  as  to  the  life  I  was  about 
to  embrace.  In  the  intervals  of  his  catarrh  and  lumbago, 
he  at  length  grew  facetious ;  and  the  person  who  accom- 
panied us,  thinking  this  to  be  a  good  opportunity,  stepped 
up  to  his  table,  and  said,  with  some  hesitation,  he  had  a 
trifling  favor  to  ask.  The  manager's  face  elongated  in 
an  instant,  and  every  wrinkle  disappeared  like  a  sudden 
calm  at  sea.  'A  favor,  Mr.  Singer,'  he  mumbled;  'a 
trifling  favor,  eh  !  You  are  always  asking  trifling  favors, 
sir,  and  such  as  are  enough  to  ruin  me.  What  is  it  you 
want  this  time?' — 'The  loan  of  a  shilling,  if  it's  not  in- 
convenient.'— 'A  what?' — ^A  shilling,  sir!' — 'What  can 
you  do  with  your  money?'  At  length  he  reluctantly  drew 
a  leathern  pouch  from  his  side,  and  selected  a  shilling  from 
the  silver  it  contained,  which  holding  an  instant  between 
his  finger  and  thumb,  he  remarked  with  some  asperity — 
'  You  will  remember,  Mr.  Singer,  it  was  but  last  Saturday 
you  shared  three-and-sixpence,  and  this  is  Wednesday!' 

"After  Mr.  Singer  had  made  a  proper  acknowledgment 
and  retired,  the  old  gentleman  detailed  to  us  his  system  of 


40  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

living,  as  a  comment  upon  what  he  termed  the  ruinous 
extravagance  of  the  age.  Threepence  a  day,  we  were  in- 
formed, supplied  him  with  subsistence.  In  the  morning, 
his  roll  and  milk,  as  we  observed ;  at  dinner,  a  rasher  of 
bacon  and  an  egg;  his  tea,  an  encore  to  his  breakfast;  all  of 
which  was  attainable  for  the  above  small  sum.  This  was 
the  severest  lesson  upon  economy  I  ever  received.  But 
with  penuriousness  so  palpable,  I  could  not  help  thinking 
there  was  a  considerable  mixture  of  eccentricity;  for  he 
was  known  to  have  accumulated  by  his  labors  above  a 
thousand  pounds. 

"In  the  evening,  I  seated  myself  on  a  front  bench  in  the 
pit,  to  witness  the  performance.  The  play  was  '  The  Re- 
cruiting Officer'  ;  and  the  young  and  gallant  Plume  was 
supported  by  the  manager.  When  the  curtain  drew  up,  he 
was  discovered  in  his  elbow-chair;  one  leg,  swathed  in 
flannel,  resting  on  a  stool.  He  was  dressed  in  a  Queen 
Anne  suit  of  regimentals,  crowned  with  his  inseparable 
companion  —  the  wig!  which  was  surmounted  by  a  pecu- 
liarly commanding  cocked  hat,  such  as  may  sometimes  be 
seen  in  the  sign-board  representation  of  the  Marquess  of 
Granby.  His  performance  of  Plume  was  precisely  that  of 
Lord  Ogleby ;  and  all  the  business  of  the  character  con- 
sisted in  his  taking  snuff,  and  producing  and  putting  away 
a  dirty  pocket-handkerchief.  As  he  £ould  neither  exit  nor 
enter,  when  his  scene  was  over,  the  curtain  was  lowered, 
and  he  was  wheeled  off  till  the  next  occurred.  With  the 
exception  of  my  friend  Scott  in  Kite,  and  Miss  Penchard 
in  Rose,  the  rest  of  the  acting  preserved  a  beautiful  corre- 
spondence to  the  manager's.  The  company  being  as 
destitute  of  numbers  as  talent,  Mrs.  Penchard  doubled 
Silvia  and  Captain  Brazen ;  and  Mr.  Singer — Mr.  Worthy, 
Costar  Pearman,  and  Justice  Balance,  &c. 

"Mrs.  Penchard,  the  wife,  from  a  certain  slimness  of 


THE   STROLLER'S  LIFE.  41 

figure  and  volatility  of  spirit  (though  turned  sixty),  had 
retained  many  characters  in  genteel  comedy  which  were 
too  bustling  for  her  husband  to  perform,  and  thus  became 
what  was  styled  the  '  Breeches  figure'  of  the  company. 
The  '  gallant  gay  Lothario'  had  but  lately  and  reluctantly 
been  given  up  to  her  by  her  husband ;  and  during  its  per- 
formance one  evening,  when  falling  in  the  combat,  part 
of  her  dress  became  discomposed,  at  which  the  gallery 
portion  of  the  audience  set  up  a  loud  clapping  and  shout- 
ing :  this  the  old  lady  unfortunately  mistook  for  appro- 
bation ;  and  when  her  daughter,  at  the  wing,  repeatedly 
requested  her  to  come  off,  'I  won't — I  won't !'  she  replied, 
loud  enough  to  be  heard  by  the  spectators ;  '  crack  your 
jealous  heart,  you  don't  want  any  one  to  get  applause  but 
yourself!' 

"  Some  days  later  we  encountered  Manager  Penchard 
and  his  company  going  out  of  town.  This  was  a  picture  ! 

"  First  came  Mr.  Singer  and  Mrs.  Penchard,  arm-in-arm  ; 
then  old  Joe,  the  stage-keeper,  leading  a  Neddy  (the  prop- 
erty and  old  companion  of  Mr.  Penchard  in  his  wander- 
ings) which  supported  two  panniers  containing  the  scenery 
and  wardrobe  ;  and  above  them,  with  a  leg  resting  on  each, 
Mr.  Penchard  himself,  dressed  in  his  '  Ranger'  suit  .of 
'  brown  and  gold,'  with  his  distinguishing  wig,  and  a  little 
three-cornered  hat  cocked  on  one  side,  giving  the  septua- 
genarian an  air  of  gayety  that  well  accorded  with  his  known 
attachment  for  the  rakes  and  lovers  of  the  drama :  one 
hand  was  knuckled  in  his  side  (his  favorite  position),  and 
the  other  raised  a  pinch  of  snuff  to  his  nose ;  and  as  he 
passed  along  he  nodded  and  bowed  to  all  about  him,  and 
seemed  greatly  pleased  with  the  attention  he  excited.  His 
daughter  and  two  other  persons  brought  up  the  rear."* 

*  Bernard's  "  Retrospects,"  voL  L  p.  91. 
4* 


42  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

The  same  lively  pen  sketches  manager  Whitely : — 

"  On  strolling  about  the  town  (of  Nottingham),  I  per- 
ceived a  playbill,  and  at  the  head  of  it  the  name  of  that 
celebrated  itinerant,  James  Whitely,  or  Jemmy  Whitely  as 
he  was  familiarly  called,  a  son  of  green  Erin,  and  a  worthy 
associate  of  those  already  recorded  eccentrics,  Thornton, 
Parker,  and  Bowles.  The  name  and  fame  of  this  person 
pervaded  the  three  kingdoms,  and  a  hundred  recollections 
of  his  personal  and  managerial  peculiarities  are  now  throng- 
ing my  head ;  but  most  of  which,  as  their  effect  depends 
upon  a  Certain  dramatic  illustration,  I  regret  are  untrans- 
ferable to  paper.  Perhaps  this  is  fortunate,  for  were  the 
case  otherwise,  I  might  write  ten  volumes  of  recollections 
instead  of  two.  I  will,  however,  select  a  few  which  are 
treatable,  and  the  first  to  exemplify  what  I  have  just  said. 

"Whitely,  in  the  course  of  his  itinerancies,  once  came 
to  a  village  where  the  magistrate  was  distinguished  for  two 
things, — an  infirmity  of  nodding  his  head,  and  a  genuine 
"Jeremy-Collier  distaste  to  plays  and  players.  Jemmy, 
nevertheless,  determined  to  wait  upon  him : — the  magis- 
trate was  a  butter  merchant  by  trade ;  and  Jemmy  found  f 
him  behind  the  counter,  industriously  attending  to  the 
wants  of  a  dozen  customers. 

"  '  Plase,  sir,'  said  Jemmy,  taking  off  his  hat,  and  bow- 
ing very  low,  '  my  name's  Mr.  Whitery  the  manager,  well 
known  in  the  North  of  England  and  Ireland,  and  all  the 
three  kingdoms,  for  my  respectability  of  karakter.'  The 
magistrate  stared,  nodded  his  head,  and  said  nothing. 
'  And  I  have  come  to  ax  your  permission  (nod  again)  in 
passing  through  the  town  (nod) — (there  are  no  villages  in 
dramatic  geography) — to  favor  the  inhabitants  (nod),  of 
whose  liberal  and  enlightened  karakter  I  have  often  heard 
(nod,  nod),  with  a  few  evenings'  entertainments'  (nod, 
nod,  nod). 


THE  STROLLER'S  LIFE.  43 

"  The  magistrate's  horror  at  the  request  had  sealed  his 
lips ;  but  Jemmy  interpreted  the  nodding  of  his  head  as  a 
tacit  consent,  and  a  hint  that  he  wished  such  consent  to 
be  kept  secret  from  those  who  were  about  him.  '  Oh, 
oh !'  he  continued,  '  I  understand  your  Worship  (nod) — 
very  well,  sir  (nod) — mum ;  thank  you,  sir  (nod,  nod), — 
your  Worship  and  your  family  will  come  for  nothing  (nod, 
nod) ;  good-morning  to  you,  sir ;  I'm  much  obliged  to 
you,  sir;  St.  Patrick  and  the  Saints  keep  you  and  your 
butter !'  (nod,  nod,  nod.) 

"  Jemmy  then  hastened  to  his  myrmidons ;  a  room  was 
engaged,  the  theatre  fitted  up,  and  the  play  announced. 
The  magistrate  in  the  mean  time  was  informed  of  their 
design,  and  ordered  his  constables  to  attend  and  take  the 
company  into  custody.  His  indignation  at  what  appeared 
to  him  an  open  defiance  of  his  authority,  suggested  this 
secret  and  severe  mode  of  proceeding.  As  the  curtain 
drew  up,  a  pack  of  *  dogs  in  office'  accordingly  leaped  on 
the  stage,  surrounded  their  victims,  and  though  they  did 
not  '  worry  them  to  death,'  they  carried  them  off  in  their 
stage  clothes  and  embellishments  to  the  house  of  the  mag- 
istrate, leaving  the  audience  (who  had  paid  their  money) 
in  as  great  a  quandary  as  themselves.  The  magistrate  had 
put  on  an  important  wig  and  demeanor  to  receive  the  cul- 
prits, and  demanded  of  Whitely,  with  an  accent  like  that 
of  Mossop  in  'Mahomet,'  'Had  he  dared  attempt  to  con- 
taminate the  inn  and  the  village  with  a  profane  stage-play 
without  his  authority?'  Whitely  civilly  replied,  that  he 
had  received  it.  '  What !  do  you  mean  to  assert  that  I 
gave  you  permission?'  said  the  magistrate.  '  No,  sir;  but 
I  mean  to  say  that  you  nodded  your  head  when  I  axed 
you ;  and  was  not  that  maning  that  you  gave  your  con- 
sent, but  didn't  want  the  Calvinistical  bogtrotters  who 
were  buying  your  butter  to  know  anything  about  it  ?' 


44  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

"A  long  altercation  ensued,  which  terminated  in  the  re- 
lease of  the  Thespians,  on  condition  that  they  instantly 
quitted  the  'town.' 

"Jemmy,  whenever  he  entered  a  place  of  importance 
in  which  he  could  pitch  his  tent,  invariably  dressed  him- 
self in  his  Don  Felix  suit  (pink  silk  and  white  satin,  span- 
gled and  slashed),  with  an  enormously  long  feather  and 
rapier,  and,  accompanied  by  a  boy  with  a  bell,  proceeded 
to  the  market-place,  where  he  announced  his  intended 
performances  (this  was  in  1776).  He  then  waited  upon 
the  principal  inhabitants  respectively,  to  obtain  their  pa- 
tronage. On  one  occasion  he  entered  the  house  of  a 
retired  tradesman,  as  vulgar  as  he  was  wealthy.  Jemmy 
was  shown  into  a  room,  where,  in  Oriental  magnificence, 
the  owner  was  reposing  upon  a  couch.  No  sooner  had  the 
former  disclosed  the  object  of  his  visit,  than  the  lordly 
adulterator  of  tea  and  sugar,  eyeing  him  with  an  air  of 
aristocratic  contempt,  exclaimed,  '  Oh  !  you  are  what  they 
call  a  strolling  player,  eh  ?'  Jemmy's  back  stiffened  in  an 
instant  from  its  rainbow  inclination  to  an  exact  perpendic- 
ular, and,  laying  his  hand  upon  his  breast,  he  replied, 
'  Sir,  whenever  I'm  blackguarded,  I  don't  condescend 
to  reply;'  he  then  turned  away,  and  walked  out  of  the 
house. 

"Jemmy  was  not  particular  in  poor  communities,  as  to 
whether  he  received  the  public  support  in  money  or  in 
'kind.'  He  would  take  meat,  fowl,  vegetables,  &c.,  value 
them  by  scales,  &c.,  and  pass  in  the  owner  and  friends  for 
as  many  admissions  as  they  amounted  to.  Thus  his  treas- 
ury very  often  on  a  Saturday  resembled  a  butcher's  ware- 
house rather  than  a  banker's.  At  a  village  on  the  coast, 
the  inhabitants  brought  him  nothing  but  fish ;  but  as  the 
company  could  not  subsist  without  its  concomitants  of 
bread,  potatoes,  and  spirits,  a  general  appeal  was  made  to 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE. 


45 


his  stomach  and  sympathies,  and  some  alteration  in  the 
terms  of  admission  required.  Jemmy  accordingly,  after 
admitting  nineteen  persons  one  evening  for  a  shad  apiece, 
stopped  the  twentieth,  and  said,  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  my 
darling,  I  am  extramely  sorry  to  refuse  you ;  but  if  we  ate 
any  more  fish,  by  the  powers,  we  shall  all  be  turned  into 
mermaids  !' " 

This  strolling  life,  the  lowest  stage  of  all,  has  a  literature 
of  its  own  ;  indeed,  its  professors  are  the  most  garrulous 
of  all.  These  sketches,  however,  give  a  fair  idea  of  this 
strange  vagabond  existence. 


CHAPTER    III. 

OLD   YORK   THEATRE. 

IN  time  the  diligent  stroller  might  fairly  reckon  on  pro- 
motion and  look  for  admission  to  the  country  theatre. 
Actors  who  became  attached  to  a  respectable  house  of  this 
class  were  released  from  their  vagabond  mode  of  life,  and 
enjoyed  what  was  only  an  agreeable  change,  the  passage 
from  one  theatre  to  another  on  the  circuit.  Such  houses 
were  directed  by  a  solvent  personage  who  had  made  money, 
and  was  held  in  esteem  in  the  district.  Salaries  were  paid; 
the  actors  were  comfortable,  and  often  enjoyed  the  excite- 
ment of  learning  that  "a  London  manager  was  in  the 
boxes."  Even  in  this  class,  there  were  degrees;  and  the- 
atres like  that  of  York,  Hull,  or  Liverpool,  held  a  com- 
paratively high  position  and  supplied  many  performers  to 
the  London  boards.  The  managers  had  a  peculiar  indi- 
viduality, and  a  direct  and  personal  influence  with  their 
audiences,  which  was  not  without  a  beneficial  effect  on  the 


46  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

drama.  But,  like  the  old-fashioned  inn  landlord  who 
looked  directly  after  the  comfort  of  the  guest,  the  old 
country  manager  has  passed  away ;  there  is  no  place  for 
him  under  modern  theatrical  arrangements.  At  the  present 
time  convenient  and  even  elegant  theatres  have  taken  the 
place  of  the  rude  old  edifices,  where  though  modern  scenic 
appliances  and  all  that  sets  off  acting  were  deficient,  acting 
itself  flourished.  This  revolution  has  taken  place  within 
the  last  thirty  years,  and  the  country  theatre,  as  may  be 
gathered  from  Mr.  Dickens's  vivacious  sketches  in  "Nich- 
olas Nickleby,"  retained  until  lately  the  old  traditions  and 
practices  of  the  days  of  Tate  Wilkinson.  "  The  bespeak" 
— the  waiting  on  local  patrons  at  their  houses,  the  rude 
devices  for  scenery  and  properties,  of  which  the  "  pumps 
and  tubs"  were  a  figure — these  were  but  lingering  remnants 
of  the  old  days  in  the  last  century,  when  Tate  Wilkinson 
commanded  at  York  and  Hull,  Austen  at  Chester,  and 
Stephen  Kemble  in  the  North.  Their  necessities  and  shifts 
had  taught  the  players  wit,  or  at  least  liveliness  and  good- 
humor ;  and  nearly  all  were  remarkable  for  social  gifts  and 
oddities  which  excited  a  sort  of  interest  and  tolerance  in 
the  town  and  country  folk  who  were  their  supporters.  It 
is  evident,  however,  that  this  fellowship  must  have  entailed 
a  certain  dependence  which  was  rather  humiliating.  We 
hear  of  the  squireen  at  the  inn  door  calling  on  the  land- 
lord "to  turn  that  actor  out  of  the  bar" — of  officers  in 
the  boxes  requiring  other  unfortunate  players  to  beg  pardon 
"on  their  knees,"  with  other  stories  of  servitude.  And 
yet,  odd  as  the  conclusion  may  appear,  this  contempt 
appears  to  argue  a  keener  relish  in  the  drama  than  is  found 
at  present,  when,  in  rural  districts,  the  interest  has  grown 
too  languid  even  to  take  offense.  Perhaps  the  most  sig- 
nificant proof  of  the  dependency  of  the  poor  players' 
position  is  conveyed  by  a  truly  piteous  appeal  attached  to 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE. 


47 


an  old  York  playbill,  in  which  the  manager  pleads  for  the 
indulgence  of  his  patrons — on  whom  he  is  in  every  way 
dependent.  Nothing  more  humble  could  be  conceived  : — 

FOR  THE  BENEFIT  OF  MR.  ORFETJR, 

Who  is  debarred  the  liberty  of  paying  his  respects  and  making  his 

interest  on  the  account  of  an  action  in  the  power  of 

Mr.  Huddy,  from  one  at  London. 


BY  MR.  KEREGAN'S  COMPANY  OF  COMEDIANS,  at 

MR.  BANKS'  COCKPIT,  without  Boulham  Bar : 

THE  MOURNING  BRIDE. 


NEW  THEATRE,  IN  MY  LORD  IRWIN'S  YARD,  YORK. 


On  Tuesday  will  be  acted  a  Play  called 
HENRY  THE   I\"TH, 

WITH 

THE  HUMOURS  OF  SIR  JOHN  FALSTAFF, 

In  which  Mr.  Keregan  hopes  the  Gentlemen  and  Ladies  of  this  City 
will  favor  him  with  their  company,  it  being  the  only  night  he  desires 
before  subscription  time,  notwithstanding  his  great  charges  for  their 
reception. 

BOXES,  Three  Shillings.  PIT,  Two  Shillings.  STAGE,  Three  Shil- 
lings. MIDDLE  GALLERY,  One  Shilling. 

N.B. — The  Play  will  be  all  new  dressed  with  new  Scenes  from 
London,  suitable  to  his  House ;  with  a  Prologue  and  Epilogue.  The 
Musick  consists  of  Overtures,  Concertos,  Sonatos,  and  Solos.  Three 
Pieces  will  be  performed  before  the  Play  begins:  the  first  at  five 
o'clock,  the  second  at  half-an-hour  after  five,  and  the  third  at  six;  at 
the  end  of  which  the  Curtain  will  be  drawn  up. 


THE  CASE  OF  THOMAS  KEREGAN, 
Proprietor  of  the   Theatre,  humbly  addressed  to  the  Quality,  Gentry, 

and  Citizens  of  York. 

Having  suffered  very  much  of  late  in  my  business,  and  as  I  appre- 
hend by  an  ill  opinion  conceived  of  me  for  keeping  up  my  subscrip- 


48  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

tion  tickets  at  the  price  they  were  first  given  out  on  the  erection  of  my 
new  Theatre,  it  having  been  suggested  that  they  might  be  afforded  at 
a  lower  price,  but  an  unreasonable  desire  had  made  me  reject  the 
advice  of  my  friends  in  that  respect,  I  thought  it  my  duty  as  well  as 
interest  to  give  the  inhabitants  of  this  ancient  city  the  best  satisfaction 
I  was  able  in  this  affair,  by  voluntarily  laying  before  them  the  state  of 
my  last  quarter's  accounts,  whereby  it  will  appear  that  I  was  near  one 
hundred  pounds  a  loser  by  the  last  quarter's  subscriptions  only.  And 
as  I  never  did  desire  anything  more  than  a  reasonable  maintenance 
for  myself  and  family,  I  humbly  hope,  after  the  great  expense  I  have 
been  at,  that  I  shall  not  be  compelled  to  remove  my  company  to  some 
other  place  for  the  want  of  encouragement  here.  ...  I  beg  leave  fur- 
ther to  inform  the  public  that,  notwithstanding  I  have  lowered  the  pit 
tickets  to  sixteen  shillings,  the  advantage  I  have  received  by  it  hath 
been  very  small — viz.,  only  the  addition  of  fourteen  subscribers,  not- 
withstanding that  it  reduces  the  pit  to  sevenpence-halfpenny  a  night, 
which  is  less  than  half  the  price  paid  to  the  meanest  company  of 
players  in  the  kingdom.  Before  I  conclude  this  short  representation 
of  my  case,  I  cannot  but  take  notice  that  it  hath  been  insinuated  very 
much  to  my  prejudice,  that  neither  myself  nor  my  wife  have  been  suffi- 
ciently thankful  for  favors  which  have  been  done  us  in  coming  to  our 
benefits,  whereas  I  can  say  with  great  truth  that  no  one  was  ever 
more  sensible  of  (and  thankful  for)  such  favors  than  we  both  have 
always  been,  however  we  may  have  failed  in  any  acknowledgments 
from  the  stage,  a  thing  never  practised  in  any  theatre  but  this,  it  being 
contrary  to  the  rules  of  the  stage.  But  as  we  are  now  sensible  it  is 
expected  from  us,  we  shall  take  care  for  the  future,  to  the  best  of  our 
knowledge,  to  do  nothing  which  may  give  offence  to  any  of  our  friends 
and  benefactors. 


During  quarter,  with  box  and  pit  takes ^288   13     3 


To  1 6  actors  and  actresses  at  izs.  and  a  pit  ticket  per 

week £I45  12  o 

"  Mrs.  Evar  and  Mrs.  Copen's  children I  10  o 

For  the  use  of  clothes,  scenes,  &c.,  from  shares  on  sala- 
ries allowed  by  the  meanest  companies  abroad    .     .         72  16  o 

To  charges  of  new  people  coming  from  London    ...         10  10  O 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE. 


49 


To  31  nights'  charges,  &c £124    o    o 

"  getting  up  2  Entertainments 30    o    o 


Lost  last  quarter £9$  14     9 

The  persons  who  take  my  money  have  set  their  hands  to  this  ac- 
count, and,  if  necessary,  are  ready  to  make  oath  of  the  same. — W. 
GREEN,  J.  EMMETT. 

For  a  more   particular  satisfaction,  the  following  account  of  the 
nightly  charges  of  acting : — 
Bills   one  day   with   another;    incidents   one  night  with 

another ;  drink  to  doorkeepers £2  14     o 

Besides  play-books,  writing  of  plays  out,  and  odd  parts;  for  writing 
out  music ;  drink  for  the  music  at  practice ;  letters  for  several  players, 
carpenters,  and  smiths;  jobs  often  for  particular  plays;  glasses  fre- 
quently broke ;  washing  the  stock ;  cards ;  wax. 

Poor  Mr.  Keregan  !  His  "case"  speaks  a  world  of 
obsequious  dependence  and  contemptuous  patronage ;  and 
his  apology  for  apparent  ingratitude  and  the  omission  of 
the  serf-like  custom  of  "acknowledgments  from  the  stage" 
is  truly  pathetic. 

It  was  scarcely  surprising  that  the  player  who  retained 
some  respect  for  himself  should  have  shrunk  from  this  act 
of  homage.  "  After  the  play,"  says  the  old  York  manager 
Wilkinson,  "the  performer  was  to  return  thanks,  and  if 
married,  both  husband  and  wife  to  appear.  Mr.  Frodsham 
once,  at  York,  spoke  a  comic  epilogue,  and  actually  car- 
ried his  wife  (now  living)  on  and  off  the  stage  on  his  back 
to  comply  with  the  expected  homage.  On  particular 
occasions,  four  or  five  children  to  make  up  weight,  curtsey- 
ing and  bowing  in  frocks,  had  a  wonderful  effect ;  as  the 
audience  in  general,  and  the  ladies  in  particular,  prided 
themselves  on  bestowing  their  bounty  on  such  a  painstaking 
man,  or  such  a  painstaking  couple,  as  they  proved  tbem- 
c  5 


50  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

selves  to  be."  At  Norwich  a  drum  and  trumpet  went 
round  the  town  with  the  bill-distributor,  who,  after  each 
flourish  and  roll,  gave  out  the  piece  of  the  night.  There 
were  some  who  naturally  thought  these  customs  to  be 
badges  of  servitude,  and  the  manager  of  the  York  Theatre 
wished  to  abolish  them,  with  what  result  his  own  quaint 
language  shall  tell : — 

"I  must  describe,"  he  says,  "one  severe  edict  in  force 
when  I  assumed  the  regency  reins :  I  mean  the  custom  of 
the  man  and  his  wife  returning  thanks  on  the  stage — and 
what  was  truly  dreadful,  the  draggle-tailed  Andromache, 
in  frost,  rain,  hail,  and  snow,  delivering  her  benefit  play- 
bills from  door  to  door,  'where  piercing  winds  blew  sharp, 
and  the  chill  rain  dropped  from  some  penthouse  on  her 
wretched  head.'  But  use  had  in  some  measure  rendered  it 
familiar — and  no  wonder  if  Hector's  widow,  when  sup- 
pliant and  in  tears,  was  induced,  on  such  solicitations,  to 
accept  with  thanks  a  cheering  drop.  When  I  mentioned 
that  degrading  and  painful  custom  to  the  company  at  York, 
previous  to  my  being  manager,  they  seemed  to  lament  the 
woes  they  sustained  as  the  laborious  custom  of  their  work- 
house duty.  And  the  reader  (particularly  if  theatrical) 
will  start  with  astonishment  when  I  aver  on  my  word,  that 
when  I  put  the  law  in  force  to  entirely  and  decidedly 
relieve  those  ladies  and  gentlemen  ffom  the  complained-of 
evident  hardship,  it  was  received  by  the  then  York  com- 
pany of  1766  with  marks  of  disgust,  and  a  conspired  com- 
bination against  me,  their  chief,  in  consequence  ensued — 
such  is  the  force  of  habit,  and  the  use  of  complying  with 
despicable  meanness  rather  than  run  the  hazard  of  losing  a 
trifle.  So  how  could  I  make  those  free  that  were  by  nature 
slaves?  Their  pleas  were,  that  the  quality  would  not  come 
(a  phrase  constantly  used  in  country  towns  by  the  lower 
people)  ;  that  the  town  inhabitants  would  be  much  enraged, 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE.  5! 

and  that  Mr.  Wilkinson  was  not  subjected  to  such  super- 
cilious duty :  besides  it  was  apparently  to  the  advantage 
of  the  theatre;  and  as  the  manager  shared  the  receipts  on 
benefit  nights,  he  had  no  cause  to  complain  or  be  dissatis- 
fied ;  he  reaped  the  advantages,  and  the  performers  only 
had  the  difficulties  to  encounter.  Those  arguments  I 
treated  as  futile,  weak,  absurd,  and  not  to  the  purpose. 

"Good  God!  what  a  sight!  to  actually  behold  Mr. 
Frodsham,  bred  as  a  gentleman,  with  fine  natural  talents, 
and  esteemed  in  York  as  a  Garrick,  the  Hamlet  of  the  age, 
running  after  or  stopping  a  gentleman  on  horseback  to 
deliver  his  benefit  bill,  and  beg  half  a  crown  (then  the 
price  of  the  boxes).  During  Mr.  Baker's  life  I  never  had 
authority  sufficient  to  prevent  the  performers  from  con- 
stantly attending  the  assembly-rooms  and  presenting  their 
petitions ;  but  when  I  was  exalted  from  regent  to  the  being 
sole  monarch,  for  the  credit  of  York  city  and  myself,  I  was 
thai  obeyed ;  though  in  all  states  there  will  be  now  and 
then  refractory  black-hearted  rebels  start  up,  whose  souls 
are  truly  malignant  and  not  to  be  controlled,  but  in  the 
end  such  people  make  themselves  so  hated  and  despised, 
that  in  consequence  of  their  bad  tongues,  and  their  own 
actions  giving  the  lie  to  their  fawning  and  dissembled 
goodness,  their  services  are  shunned  everywhere,  and  they 
fall  into  the  net  they  designed  for  others." 

The  York  Theatre  was  perhaps  the  best  specimen  of 
the  country  theatre ;  for  the  Bath  Theatre  held  an  ex- 
ceptional position.  This  pre-eminence  it  owed  to  the 
tact,  character,  and  exertions  of  its  manager,  Tate  Wilkin- 
son, who  was  known  to  several  generations  of  the  pro- 
fession. Later  he  shall  be  introduced  to  relate  his  own 
adventures ;  but  our  view  of  the  York  Theatre — or  indeed 
of  the  typical  country  theatre — would  be  incomplete  with- 
out presenting  this  well-known  figure. 


52  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

Having  made  some  money  during  a  laborious  life,  he 
determined  to  invest  it  in  this  theatre,  where  he  had 
often  acted,  but  which  the  easy-going  management  of 
"old  Baker"  had  reduced  to  decay.  He  was  tired  of 
wandering. 

He  invested  his  savings — nearly  two  thousand  pounds — 
in  the  -concern,  and  in  the  year  1766  entered  on  the 
management.  For  more  than  thirty  years  he  conducted 
it  with  great  success,  and  it  may  be  added,  singularity. 
He  had  tact  enough  to  discern  the  promise  of  many 
obscure  players,  whom  he  encouraged  with  good  salaries, 
and  retained  in  his  service  until  the  "London  manager" 
— that  rock  ahead  of  the  thriving  country  theatre — be- 
guiled them  to  town.  It  was  thus  that  he  developed  the 
talents  of  Kemble,  Siddons,  Fawcett,  Jordan,  Inchbald, 
and  many  more.  It  was  to  his  credit  that  after  the  great 
actress's  first  failure  in  London  he  should  have  received 
her  warmly  and  given  her  the  leading  place.  He  was  not, 
however,  to  be  known  simply  as  an  enterprising  manager. 
From  being  a  student  of  eccentricity,  he  became  himself 
the  most  eccentric  of  beings ;  and  as  he  was  in  an  irre- 
sponsible position,  his  oddities  were  encouraged  to  develop 
themselves.  The  name  of  the  York  house  became  known 
over  the  kingdom,  and  the  stories  of  his  peculiarities  were 
the  entertaiment  of  every  green-rcom. 

The  York  Theatre  helps  us  to  a  picture  of  the  country- 
town  society  as  it  was  in  the  last  century.  When  the 
wealthy  families  came  up  for  the  York  seasons,  during  race 
and  assize  weeks,  the  town  filled  to  overflowing.  The 
sheriff,  and  the  stewards,  and  the  officers,  all  patronized 
the  theatre ;  and  during  those  festivals  the  actors  received 
double  salaries. 

One  of  the  characteristics  of  the  country  theatre  used  to 
be  the  reasonable  pride  of  the  audience  in  their  own  per- 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE.  53 

formers.  Those  who  had  lived  among  them  for  many 
years  were  known  and  respected,  and  reflected  a  certain 
credit  on  the  place.  It  is  indeed  recorded,  that  when  the 
reports  of  Garrick's  extraordinary  success  reached  Liver- 
pool, the  patrons  of  the  drama  there  began  to  be  exercised 
as  to  the  question  whether  the  new  actor  could  be  superior 
to  their  own  two  leading  performers,  Messrs.  Gibson  and 
Ridout,  who  enjoyed  the  highest  reputation.  This  dis- 
cussion became  so  exciting  that  at  last  a  deputation  going 
up  to  town  on  corporate  business  were  charged  specially  to 
visit  the  theatre  and  bring  back  an  accurate  report.  On 
their  return  the  question  was  eagerly  put,  and,  to  the  relief 
of  the  public,  it  was  gravely  announced  "  that  Gibson  and 
Ridout  were  on  the  whole  superior."  It  was  scarcely 
wonderful  that,  being  thus  appreciated,  the  local  actor 
should  hold  his  head  high ;  and  the  York  company  could 
always  show  a  "line  of  veterans"  who  had  played  from 
youth  to  old  age,  and  who,  confident  in  their  superiority 
and  in  the  admiration  of  the  town,  affected  to  disdain  all 
metropolitan  allurements.  Conspicuous  among  these  was 
Mr.  Frodsham,  "the  York  Roscius"  in  "old  Baker's" 
time,  and  Mr.  Cummins,  the  ancient  tragedian  of  Wilkin- 
son's,— both  delightful  characters.  The  sketch  of  Frod- 
sham drawn  by  Wilkinson  is  admirable,  and  for  gayety  and 
humor  might  be  a  scene  out  of  a  good  old  comedy : — 

"  I  apprehend  that  many  persons  in  Yorkshire,  whether 
the  old  who  have  seen  Mr.  Frodsham,  or  the  young  who 
have  heard  much  of  that  gentleman,  will  be  pleased  with  a 
description  of  him :  I  have  therefore  in  this  niche  placed 
him ;  and  shall  here  give  (according  to  my  best  recol- 
lection) a  concise  sketch  of  the  once  much-talked-of,  and 
the  now  almost  forgotten  Frodsham,  who  was  thirty  years 
ago  termed  the  York  Garrick. 

"The  abilities  of  that  performer  were  unquestionable. 
5* 


54  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

Mr.  Frodsham  had  a  quick  genius,  aided  by  a  liberal  edu- 
cation :  but  his  mind,  his  understanding,  and  supera- 
bundant good  qualities,  were  all  warped  and  undermined 
by  nocturnal  habits;  which  failings  unfortunately  were 
supplied  by  refreshing  pulls  at  the  brandy-bottle  in  the 
morning,  to  take  off  all  qualms  from  the  stomach,  till  the 
certain  consequence  ensued  of  being  enfeebled,  disordered, 
mad,  dropsical,  and  dead  at  the  age  of  thirty-five. 

"  Mr.  Powell  of  London,  whom  the  stage  had  cause  to 
lament,  is  the  nearest  assimilation  I  can  give  of  Frodsham. 
Mr.  Powell  had  the  opportunity  of  strictly  observing  real 
artists,  Garrick  and  Barry,  in  all  their  modes  and  shapes 
of  grief:  inattentive  Frodsham  unhappily  was  his  own 
master,  and  a  careless  one  ;  for  though  he  set  himself  diffi- 
cult tasks,  he  only  now  and  then  pursued  the  trump  of  fame 
with  ardency  or  alacrity,  but  lagged,  and  never  reached  the 
goal,  though  a  very  little  spurring  and  jockeyship  would 
have  made  him  come  in  first,  and  won  many  a  theatrical 
plate.  The  public  were  so  infatuated  (and  indeed  he  was 
so  superior)  that  he  cast  all  others  at  a  distance  in  his  York 
situation  ;  and  the  audience  too  blindly  and  too  partially 
(for  his  good)  approved  all  he  did  beyond  comparison  ; 
and  when  in  full  pride,  before  he  wilfully  sunk  himself,  I 
do  not  think  any  actor  but  Garrick  would  have  been  liked 
so  well.;  and  even  Garrick,  not  without  some  old  maids' 
opinions  at  a  secret  cabal,  where  Frodsham  would  have  been 
voted  superior,  and  under  the  rose  appointed  the  man  for 
the  ladies.  Nor  would  that  decision  in  favor  of  Frodsham 
have  been  from  elderly  ladies  only,  as  he  had  often  melted 
the  youthful  fair  ones  of  the  tenderest  moulds,  whose  hearts 
have  been  susceptible  whenever  Frodsham  was  the  lover. 
Thus  situated  at  i/.  is.  per  week  salary,  Frodsham  had  not 
any  opportunity  for  observation  or  improvement :  no  in- 
fringement was  suffered,  or  change  of  characters.  About 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE. 


55 


thirty-two  years  ago  he  obtained  a  fortnight  for  holidays, 
which  occasioned  great  lamentations  at  York,  for  they  were 
certain  if  Mr.  Garrick  saw  Frodsham  it  would  be  a'  woful 
day  for  the  York  stage.  He  not  only  was  young  and  vain, 
but  self-opinionated  to  a  superabundant  degree.  When  in 
London  he  left  a  card  at  Mr.  Garrick's  house, '  Mr.  Frodsham 
of  York,'  with  the  same  ease  and  facility  as  if  it  had  been 
the  first  gentleman  from  Yorkshire.  Mr.  Garrick  judged 
this  card  of  a  country  stroller  very  easy  and  very  extraor- 
dinary, and  from  the  sample  wished  to  see  the  York  actor, 
who  had  accordingly  admittance  the  ensuing  day;  and 
after  a  slight  conversation,  during  which  Garrick  was  aston- 
ished at  the  young  man's  being  so  very  free  and  affable, 
particularly  on  any  subject  pertaining  to  Shakespeare's 
plays,  £c.,  and  still  with  a  procrastination  that  Garrick 
was  not  accustomed  to,  or  by  any  means  relished  a  com- 
pliance with,  he  delayed,  every  minute  expecting  that 
Frodsham  would  present  his  petition  to  be  heard,  and  re- 
ceive his  commendation  from  Garrick's  eye  of  favor.  But 
this  obsequious  request  not  being  made,  Garrick  urged 
present  business,  and  presented  the  York  Romeo  with  an 
order  for  the  pit,  desiring  him  that  night  to  favor  him  with 
attendance  to  see  him  perform  Sir  John  Brute,  accom- 
panied with  an  invitation  to  breakfast  the  ensuing  morning 
— at  the  same  time  asking  him,  '  Pray  now,  have  you  seen 
a  play  since  your  arrival  in  London  ?' — '  Oh  yes,'  quickly 
answered  Mr.  Frodsham,  'I  saw  you  play  Hamlet  two 
nights  ago;'  to  which  he  added  it  was  his  own  favorite 
character.  *  Well,'  says  Garrick,  '  pray  now,  how  did  you 
approve,  Frodsham  ?  I  hope  I  pleased  you : '  for  that  night 
he  had  judged  his  performance  a  lucky  hit.  Frodsham 
replied,  *  Oh,  yes,  certainly,  my  dear  sir,  vastly  clever  in 
several  passages ;  but  I  cannot  so  far  subjoin  mine  to  the 
public  opinion  of  London,  as  to  say  I  was  equally  struck 


56  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

with  your  whole  performance  in  that  part.'  I  do  not  con- 
jecture that  any  actor  who  spoke  to  Garrick  ever  so  amazed 
him.  Garrick  stammered,  and  said,  '  Why — why  now,  to 
be  sure  now,  why  I  suppose  you  in  the  country — Pray  now, 
Mr.  Frodsham,  what  sort  of  a  place  do  you  act  in  at  York? 
Is  it  in  a  room,  or  riding-house,  occasionally  fitted  up  ?' 
'Oh  no,  sir,  a  theatre,  upon  my  honor.' — 'Oh  sure,  why 
my  Lord  Burlington  has  said  that ;  why,  will — will  you 
breakfast  to-morrow,  and  we  will  have  a  trial  of  skill,  and 
Mrs.  Garrick  shall  judge  between  us, — ha,  ha,  ha,  now,  I 
say.  Good-day,  Mr.  York,  for  I  must  be  at  the  theatre, 
so  now  pray  remember  breakfast.'  Frodsham  promised  he 
would,  and  made  his  exit.  And  though  Garrick  himself 
told  me  the  circumstance,  and  truly  laughed  then,  yet  I  am 
certain  at  the  time  he  had  been  greatly  piqued,  astonished, 
and  surprised  at  so  strange  a  visit  from  a  country  actor ; 
yet  wishing  to  satisfy  his  curiosity,  had  done  it  for  once 
at  the  expense  of  his  pride  and  dignity.  The  following 
day  arrived  the  York  hero  at  Palais  Royale  in  Southamp- 
ton Street,  according  to  appointment — breakfast  finished, 
with  Madam  Garrick  as  good  superintendent,  waiting  with 
impatience,  and  full  of  various  conjectures  why  the  poor 
man  from  the  country  did  not  take  courage  and  prostrate 
before  the  foot  of  majesty,  humbly  requesting  a  trial,  en- 
gagement, etc.,  but  as  Frodsham  did  not,  as  expected, 
break  the  ice,  Garrick  did.  '  Well,  Mr.  Frodsham,  why 
now,  well,  that  is,  I  suppose  you  saw  my  Brute  last  night  ? 
Now,  no  compliment,  but  tell  Mrs.  Garrick;  well  now, 
was  it  right  ?  Do  you  think  it  would  have  pleased  at  York? 
Now  speak  what  you  think !' — '  Oh !'  says  Frodsham,  '  cer- 
tainly, certainly ;  and,  upon  my  honor,  without  compli- 
ment, I  never  was  so  highly  delighted  and  entertained — it 
was  beyond  my  comprehension  :  but  having  seen  you  play 
Hamlet  first,  your  Sir  John  Brute  exceeded  my  belief;  for 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE. 

I  have  been  told,  Hamlet,  Mr.  Ganick,  is  one  of  your  first 
characters  ;  but  I  must  say,  I  flatter  myself  I  play  it  almost 
as  well ;  for  comedy,  my  good  sir,  is  your  forte.  But  your 
Brute,  d — n  it,  Mr.  Garrick,  your  Brute  was  excellence 
itself!  You  stood  on  the  stage  in  the  drunken  scene  flour- 
ishing your  sword ;  you  placed  youself  in  an  attitude — I 
am  sure  you  saw  me  in  the  pit  at  the  same  time,  and  with 
your  eyes  you  seemed  to  say,  "  D — n  it,  Frodsham,  did  you 
ever  see  anything  like  that  at  York  ?  Could  you  do  that, 
Frodsham?"  '  (and  it  is  possible  the  last  remark  was  a  just 
one.)  The  latter  part  of  this  harangue  of  Frodsham's  pos- 
sibly went  not  so  glibly  down  as  the  tea  at  breakfast :  and 
the  ease  and  familiarity  with  which  it  was  accompanied  and 
delivered,  not  only  surprised  but  mortified  Garrick,  who 
expected  adulation  and  the  bended  knee. 

"After  much  affectation  of  laughter,  and  seemingly  ap- 
proving all  Frodsham  had  uttered — '  Well  now,  hey  I  for  a 
taste  of  your  quality — now  a  speech,  Mr.  Frodsham,  from 
Hamlet ;  and,  Mrs,  Garrick,  "  bear  a  wary  eye."  '  Frod- 
sham with  the  utmost  composure,  spoke  Hamlet's  first  so- 
liloquy without  any  idea  of  fear  or  terror,  or  indeed  allow- 
ing Garrick,  as  a  tragedian,  a  better  Hamlet,  or  superior 
to  himself;  Garrick  all  the  while  darting  his  fiery  eyes  into 
the  soul  of  Frodsham — a  custom  of  Garrick's  to  all  whom 
he  deemed  subservient,  as  if  he  meant  to  alarm  and  convey 
from  those  eyes  an  iflea  of  intelligence  to  the  beholder  of 
his  own  amazing  intellect.  Garrick  certainly  possessed 
most  extraordinary  powers  of  eye,  as  they  contained  not 
only  the  fire  and  austerity  he  meant  to  convey,  but  his  sim- 
plicity in  Scrub,  and  archness  of  eye  in  Don  John,  were 
equally  excellent  and  as  various.  On  Frodsham  the  eye  of 
terror  had  no  such  effect ;  for  if  he  had  noticed  and  thought 
Mr.  Garrick's  eyes  were  penetrating,  he  would  inwardly 
have  comforted  himself  his  own  were  equally  brilliant,  if 
c* 


58  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

not  superiorly  so.  When  Frodsham  had  finished  Hamlet's 
first  speech,  and  without  stop,  To  be  or  not  to  be,  &c.,  Gar- 
rick said,  '  Well,  hey  now  !  hey  !  you  have  a  smattering, 
but  you  want  a  little  of  my  forming ;  and  really  in  some 
passages  you  have  acquired  tones  I  do  not  by  any  means 
approve.'  Frodsham  tartly  replied,  'Tones,  Mr.  Garrick! 
to  be  sure  I  have  tones,  but  you  are  not  familiarized  to 
them.  I  have  seen  you  act  twice,  Hamlet  the  first,  and  I 
thought  you  had  odd  tones,  and  Mrs.  Gibber  strange  tones, 
and  they  were  not  quite  agreeable  to  me  on  the  first  hear- 
ing, but  I  dare  say  I  should  soon  be  reconciled  to  them.' — 
'  Why  now,'  says  the  much-astonished,  wondering  Garrick, 
'nay  now,  this  is — why  now  really,  Frodsham,  you  are  a 
d — d  queer  fellow ;  but  for  a  fair  and  full  trial  of  your 
genius  my  stage  shall  be  open,  and  you  shallact  any  part 
you  please,  and  if  you  succeed  we  will  then  talk  of  terms.' 
— '  Oh  !'  said  Frodsham,  in  the  same  flighty  flow  of  spirits, 
'  you  are  mistaken,  my  dear  Mr.  Garrick,  if  you  think  I 
came  here  to  solicit  an  engagement ;  I  am  a  Roscius  at  my 
own  quarters  !  I  came  to  London  purposely  to  see  a  few 
plays,  and  looking  on  myself  as  a  man  not  destitute  of  tal- 
ents, I  judged  it  a  proper  compliment  to  wait  on  a  brother 
genius.  I  thought  it  indispensable  to  see  you  and  have  half 
an  hour's  conversation  with  you — I  neither  want  nor  wish 
for  an  engagement ;  for  I  would  not  abandon  or  relinquish 
the  happiness  I  enjoy  in  Yorkshire  fof  the  first  terms  your 
great  and  grand  city  of  London  could  afford  ;'  and  with  a 
negligent,  wild  bow  made  his  exit,  and  left  the  gazing  Gar- 
rick following  his  shade,  like  Shakespeare's  ghost,  himself 
standing  in  an  attitude  of  surprise,  to  ruminate  and  reflect, 
and  to  relate  this  account  of  the  strangest  mad  actor  he  had 
ever  seen,  or  ever  after  did  see." 

Once,  when  Colman  came  to  York  to  make  some  engage- 
ments, a  dinner  was  given  in  his  honor  by  the  manager. 


OLD    YOKK  THEATRE.  59 

The  play  for  the  evening  was  "The  School  for  Scandal," 
and  be  asked  with  some  curiosity  who  was  to  play  Charles 
Surface.  A  respectable  old  gentleman  of  sixty  was  sitting 
qffMUMlT,  who  had  been  eating  in  silence,  and  to  whom  the 
manager  pointed,  saying,  "  Mr.  Cummins  k  the  Charles" 
The  actor  bowed  complacently,  and  Cohnan  could  not  re- 
strain a  grimace.  This  was  the  established  glory  of  the 
York  stage,  who  had  ranted  and  mouthed  for  thirty  or  forty 
years,  and  whose  position  was  secure.  When  Kembie, 
laboriously  studying  his  profession,  was  attempting  to  make 
some  impression  on  the  Yorkshire  "Tykes,"  it  was  pro- 
nounced that  be  was  very  good  in  his  way,  "  but  nothin' 
to  Coomins ""  A  grave  criticism  from  a  local  paper  has 
been  preserved  in  which  good-natured  words  of  warning 
and  encouragement  are  given  to  the  young  aspirant,  and 
he  is  told,  if  he  would  really  wish  to  rise,  to  bestow  pains 
on  studying  the  various  points  of  Mr.  Cummins'  style. 
Excellent  as  Kemble's  promise  was,  the  customs  of  the 
York  stage  were  inflexible,  and  he  was  never  allowed  to 
interfere  with  Mr.  Cummins,  who  to  the  last  retained  all 
his  characters.  This  veteran  was  to  be  one  of  the  lew 
players  who  have  died  literally  in  harness,  and  drawn  their 
last  breath  at  the  foot-lights. 

All  about  the  establishment  had  a  dash  of  the  director's 
eccentricity.  The  wardrobe-keeper,  "Johnny  Winter," 
who,  though  in  care  of  a  rich  stock  of  dresses,  had  an 
almost  invincible  objection  to  allowing  them  to  be  used, 
was  a  character.  All  manner  of  spectacle  was  his  particu- 
lar dread  and  detestation,  and  Shakespeare's  plays  were 
classed  and  confounded  by  him  with  pieces  requiring  show, 
dress,  and  numbers.  Above  all,  he  hated  to  look  out 
dresses  for  the  supernumeraries,  whom  he  called  smfcrmttJ- 
He  argued  against  and  resisted  their  aid,  in  the 
selfish  manner  he  was  master  of;  ai 


60  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

the  night  came,  he  would  abuse  the  people  and  obstruct 
their  preparations.  Whenever  the  manager  ordered  the 
revival  of  any  of  Shakespeare's  plays,  his  abhorrence  of 
them  was  proportioned  to  their  processions,  and  he  was 
almost  frantic  during  John  Kemble's  engagement,  when 
the  play  of  "  Coriolanus"  was  revived.  "  That  John 
Kemble  and  Shakespeare,"  Mr.  Mathews  heard  him  say, 
"  have  given  me  more  trooble  than  all  the  other  people 
in  t'  world  put  together,  and  my  spouse  into  t'  bar- 
gain." He  especially  hated  "  Henry  the  Eighth,"  and 
others  of  the  historical  plays  that  required  numbers  to  be 
dressed. 

Here  as  in  other  towns  the  players — or  the  manager, 
rather — were  dependent  on  the  caprices  of  their  patrons — 
the  squires,  the  small  gentry  of  the  town,  and  the  officers. 
Mr.  Wilkinson,  however,  had  a  certain  independence,  and 
by  asserting  that  of  his  profession,  succeeded  in  raising  its 
dignity.  The  tyranny  of  these  patrons  was  indeed  insup- 
portable. One  night  when  Mr.  Kemble  was  playing,  a 
lady  of  position  in  the  neighborhood  disturbed  the  per- 
formance by  loud  remarks  and  ridicule  of  the  actor.  As 
this  treatment  was  continued,  Mr.  Kemble,  after  many 
pauses  and  significant  glances,  at  last  came  forward,  and 
addressing  the  offender  declared  that  he  could  not  go  on 
until  the  disturbance  ceased.  The  lady  was  attended  by 
some  officers  of  the  garrison,  who  resented  what  they  con- 
sidered "the  insult,"  and  uproariously  insisted  on  his 
coming  forward  to  apologize.  The  spirited  actor  refused. 
The  performance  was  not  allowed  to  go  on.  He  came  for- 
ward, and  replied  to  the  cries  of  submission  with  a  decided 
"Never."  On  this  the  "influential"  party  left  the  box. 
On  the  next  day  the  military  gentlemen  took  the  matter 
up,  insisting  on  the  dismissal  of  the  offender,  and  attempt- 
ing to  intimidate  the  manager  by  declaring  that  unless  the 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE.  6 1 

wish  was  complied  with,  all  further  patronage  should  be 
withdrawn,  and  that  they  and  their  friends,  with  even  the 
tradesmen  they  employed,  should  never  enter  the  theatre. 
This  was  a  serious  crisis,  but  the  veteran  manager  took  a 
spirited  part.  He  had  always  found  Kemble  "  a  gentle- 
man," and  respected  him.  He  refused  to  dismiss  him, 
saying  that  he  was  in  the  right,  and  that  he  valued  him 
more  than  all  the  patronage  of  the  family  and  its  depend- 
ents. After  many  further  attempts  at  bullying  him  into 
compliance  his  firmness  prevailed,  and  the  audience  came 
round  to  his  side. 

Before  he  could  thus  vindicate  his  position  the  York 
manager  had  to  undergo  other  humiliations : — 

"This  leads  me  to  an  anecdote,  which  suddenly  and 
impulsively  bursts  on  my  recollection.  A  first  esteemed 
gentleman  in  the  spacious  county  of  York,  whose  polished 
understanding  and  manners  were  universally  acknowledged 
and  admired,  even  to  the  extent  of  popularity  in  the  great 
world,  some  few  years  since  desired  to  patronize  a  play.  I 
sent  my  treasurer  with  the  catalogue  (as  is  usual  on  such 
occasions  to  any  leading  person) ;  but  on  looking  over  the 
list  of  tragedies,  comedies,  and  farces,  he  declared  he  could 
not  determine,  and  desired  Mr.  Wilkinson  would  attend 
him  and  his  party  after  dinner,  at  the  inn  where  he  then 
for  a  few  days  resided.  Which  mandate  I  obeyed ;  and 
without  being  arrogant,  in  my  idea  (as  his  Majesty's  pat- 
entee), undoubtedly  expected  being  favored  with  sitting  at 
the  cheerful  board,  and  holding  some  chit-chat  relative  to 
the  play  and  farce  that  he  intended  to  sanction.  Instead 
of  such  usual  and  indeed  common  civility,  after  waiting  a 
considerable  time  in  the  bar,  I  was  at  length  ushered  into 

the  room  where  the  company  had  dined,  when  Sir 

beckoned  me  to  approach  him  at  the  upper  end  of 

the  table,  where  I  impertinently  expected  to  have  to  sat 
6 


62  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

down  ;  but  neither  found  a  vacancy,  or  the  waiter  even 

ordered  to  produce  me  a  chair.  Sir discoursed 

relative  to  the  play — then  of  York  city ;  graciously  observed 
I  had  acted  Bayes  so  as  to  merit  his  approbation  ;  and  to 
heighten  the  compliment  remarked,  he  was  no  judge,  as  he 
seldom  visited  the  theatre,  either  in  London  or  elsewhere. 
At  length  he  condescendingly  asked  me  to  drink  a  glass 
of  wine,  which  I  begged  to  decline ;  but  he  requested  a 
worthy  and  respectable  gentleman  (now  living)  to  give  a 
glass,  which  he  handed  to  me  as  if  I  had  been  a  common 
porter  waiting  for  a  message  :  for  I  actually  stood  all  the 
while  at  the  backs  of  their  chairs.  I  was  most  truly  happy 
to  depart,  and  from  that  day  lost  all  anxiety  or  ray  of  in- 
clination to  pay  my  devoirs  or  wait  on  that  great  man, 
who  was  then  termed  the  Grandison  of  the  age. 

"I  would  attribute  this  to  want  of  thought  at  the  time; 
but  I  do  not  see  how  that  could  be  the  case  for  so  long  a 
space,  where  sense  and  good  breeding  were  by  all  allowed 
to  be  the  characteristic  qualities  of  that  gentleman." 

Here  is  his  picture  of  a  York  race-week  and  its  trials : — 

"  The  York  races  (which  in  the  year  1765  were  in  their 
great  glory)  made  me  imagine  'Love  a  la  Mode'  would 
prove  of  the  highest  consequence  there ;  and  I  said  to  I 
by  itself,  I,  /  should  do  great  things  at  the  theatre  from 
'Love  a  la  Mode,'  which  would  go.down  pleasantly,  and 
expected  to  be  applauded  as  a  Garrick,  a  Foote,  and  a 
Macklin,  in  the  different  characters :  and  here,  good  reader, 
you  will  observe  a  lesson  for  vanity,  and  as  efficacious  and 
as  good  a  cure  as  are  Spilsbury's  drops  for  the  scurvy,  or 
Godbold's  for  a  consumption. 

"The  Monday  in  the  race  week  I  fixed  on  Cadwallader 
in  the  farce,  as  a  part  I  was  certain  the  York  audience  were 
partial  to  me  in,  and  judged  I  was  established  in  their 
opinions.  When  at  rehearsal  that  noon  a  message  was 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE.  63 

sent  to  me,  while  on  Ihe  stage,  that  several  gentlemen 
desired  to  speak  with  me  in  Mr.  Baker's  dining-room.  I 
instantly  obeyed  the  summons  (first  desiring  the  performers 
to  wait),  and  in  imagination  assuring  myself  it  must  cer- 
tainly be  a  complimentary  intended  bespoke  play,  for  my 
performing  in  some  shining  character  the  night  following. 
When  I  made  my  entrance  into  the  room,  in  high  mirth 
and  glee,  where  the  gentlemen  were,  and  was  singing 
aloud, 

York  races  are  just  now  beginning, 
The  lads  and  their  lasses  are  coming, 

after  my  bow,  and  on  the  survey  of  features,  not  recol- 
lecting one  individual  face  there  assembled,  I  naturally 
requested  to  be  acquainted  with  the  honor  of  their  com- 
mands, as  I  was  at  that  time  busily  engaged  with  my  atten- 
tion to  the  rehearsal  of  'The  Author,'  a  farce  of  Mr. 
Foote's,  which  was  intended  for  that  very  evening  ;  when 
a  young  gentleman  quickly  replied,  '  Sir,  it  is  that  very 
rehearsal  and  farce  I  came  to  put  an  immediate  stop  to ;' 
then  turning  to  Mr.  Baker,  said :  *  Sir,  you  need  not  be 
informed  the  York  Theatre  is  not  licensed,  and  if  you  are 
not  acquainted  with  another  circumstance,  I  beg  you  will 
understand  you  are  guilty  of  a  double  offence,  by  a  flagrant 
breach  of  law  and  flying  in  the  face  of  authority ;  as  the 
impudent  libel  called  *  The  Author,'  written  by  that  scoun- 
drel Foote,  was  stopped  from  any  future  performance  six 
years  ago,  in  December,  1758,  and  has  not  been  permitted 
since.  My  name,  Mr.  Wilkinson,  is  Apreece,  and  the 
character  of  Cadwallader  you  mean  to  perform  is  an  affront 
to  the  memory  of  my  father  (who  is  now  dead) :  as  his  son, 
by  G-d,  I  will  not  suffer  such  insolence  to  pass  either  un- 
noticed or  unpunished;  therefore  if  at  night  you  dare 
attempt  or  presume  to  play  that  farce,  myself  and  friends 
are  determined,  one  and  all,  not  to  leave  a  bench  or  scene 


64  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

in  your  theatre;  so,  Mr.  Wilkinson,  your  immediate  and 
determinate  answer.'  I  could  only  refer  to  Mr.  Baker, 
who  was  the  manager  and  the  proprietor ;  I  was  only  on 
an  engagement  with  that  gentleman  for  the  race  week,  and 
I  should  be  guided  by  his  opinion  and  direction.  'Well, 
Mr.  Baker,'  said  Mr.  Apreece,  'we  wait  your  decision.' 
The  old  gentleman  spoke  thus:  'Why,  look  ye,  d'ye  see, 
gentlemen,  if  so  be  that  is  the  case,  why  as  to  the  matter 
of  that,  Mr.  Wilkinson,  d'ye  see  me,  must  not  act  Cadwal- 
lader  this  evening.'  That,  Mr.  Apreece  said,  was  all  he 
requested,  and  added,  that  himself  and  friends  would  all 
attend  the  theatre  that  night,  but  expected  no  infringe- 
ment to  be  made  on  the  treaty,  either  by  secret  or  offensive 
means,  to  cause  an  opposition  after  the  manager's  word 
was  given ;  then  wished  a  good  race  week,  and  Apreece 
and  his  numerous  association  departed. 

"  For  some  minutes  Mr.  Baker  and  I  stood  and  gazed 
at  each  other  like  Gayless  and  Sharp  after  Kitty  Pry's 
departure:  where  one  says,  'O  Sharp!  Sharp!'  the  other 
answers,  '  O  master  !  master  !'  But  when  recovered  a  little 
from  the  dilemma,  what  was  to  be  done?  that  was  the 
question  !  To  be  or  not  to  be  ? — for  I  could  not  advance 
forward  ('  The  Author'  being  a  favorite  farce)  and  say,  'A 
party  of  gentlemen  would  not  suffer  it  to  be  acted,  for  if 
it  was  they  threatened  a  dangerous  riot.'  Nor  could  we 
give  out  handbills  and  inform  the  public  a  performer  was 
dangerously  ill,  who  might  immediately  contradict  it  and 
assert  his  being  in  perfect  health :  so  in  council  it  was 
agreed  to  be  naturally  stupid,  say  nothing,  but  substitute 
'The  Mayor  of  Garratt,'  and  proceed  with  the  farce,  so 
changed,  without  any  apology  whatever.  It  certainly  was 
the  strangest  mode  that  ever  was  adopted,  or  that  ever  was 
suffered  without  momentous  consequences,  attended  with 
strict  inquiry  and  investigation. 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE.  65 

"  The  first  scene  between  Sir  Jacob  Jollup  and  Mr.  Lint 
the  apothecary,  the  astonished  audience  sat,  each  staring  in 
his  fellow's  face,  like  Shakespeare's  blacksmith  with  his 
hammer  up  and  swallowing  a  tailor's  news,  and  concluded 
it  was  something  new  by  Wilkinson  foisted  into  '  The  Au- 
thor,' but  when  I  was  announced  as  the  Major,  and  made 
my  entrance,  the  reader  will  not  be  surprised  when  in- 
formed I  was  received  with  an  universal  hiss.  I  took  no 
notice,  but  went  on.  The  disapprobation  continued,  but 
not  so  virulently  as  to  occasion  a  standstill ;  and  the  reader 
may  be  assured  we  lost  no  time  in  getting  our  work  over, 
but  wished  for  bed-time,  and  that  all  were  well ;  for  though 
I  owed  Heaven  a  debt,  it  is  clearly  evident  it  was  not  then 
due,  and  I  was,  like  Falstaff,  loth  to  pay  before  the  day. 
At  last  the  death  of  that  day's  life  came  on,  the  curtain 
dropped,  and  the  poor  Major  Sturgeon  sneaked  away  with 
marks  of  anger  following  at  his  heels,  and  slunk  to  bed  to 
cover  himself  and  his  dishonor.  So  ended  the  first  lesson 
of  the  week,  where  I  expected  to  have  outdone  my  usual 
outdoings;  but  the  greatest  generals  have  met  with  dis- 
graces and  misfortunes. 

"Tuesday  I  acted  'The  Lyar,'  which  went  off  wonder- 
fully well;  I  breathed  better  than  in  the  morning,  and  felt 
once  more  a  little  elated.  I  had  fixed  on  '  The  Appren- 
tice' as  the  entertainment,  which  the  summer  before  had 
done  much  for  me  in  London ;  but  unfortunately  it  hap- 
pened to  be  a  favorite  part  of  Mr.  Frodsham's  (who  in 
truth  did  not  play  it  well,  but  quite  the  contrary),  and  in 
that  character  I  failed  again,  without  a  single  hand  to  assist. 
I  labored  through  a  part  in  which,  in  London,  I  had  been 
much  flattered  by  applause  in  the  extreme ;  my  imitations 
were  not  known  in  Yorkshire,  therefore  naturally  passed 
without  the  least  effect.  The  reader  will  smile  at  the 
pleasant  week  I  had  promised  myself,  but  I  fed  on  thin 
6* 


66  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

diet,  that  of  hope,  which  I  doubted  not  would  give  a 
brilliant  and  good  ending  after  the  bad  beginning. 

"About  twelve  on  the  Wednesday,  when  I  had  finished 
the  rehearsal  of  'The  Provoked  Wife,'  a  deputation  of 
gentlemen  were  sent  as  ambassadors  from  the  ladies  assem- 
bled then  at  Giordani's  concert.  The  gentlemen  who 
came  from  the  rooms  informed  me  and  Mr.  Baker,  that 
Lady  Bingley  and  all  the  ladies  assembled  sent  their  com- 
pliments ;  they  wished  that  night  to  make  a  point  of  visit- 
ing the  theatre  before  they  went  to  the  rooms,  in  order  to 
show  every  encouragement  to  the  manager;  but  it  was 
with  the  proviso  that  so  indecent  a  play  as  '  The  Provoked 
Wife'  (which  the  ladies  could  not  by  any  means  counte- 
nance) might  be  changed  to  another  comedy,  if  their 
protection  an  1  patronage  were  worth  consideration ;  but 
if  their  request  was  not  complied  with,  they  should  not  on 
any  account  enter  the  theatre,  as  they  would  not  by  any 
means  think  of  sitting  out  so  improper  a  representation. 
The  ladies  added,  that  as  to  the  farce  of  '  The  Upholsterer' 
being  altered,  it  was  very  immaterial,  as  very  few  would 
continue  after  the  play,  but  go  to  the  rooms.  More  com- 
fort still  for  unfortunate  Wilkinson  ! 

"  Well,  the  command,  as  it  might  be  termed,  from  the 
boxes,  was  likely  and  necessary  to  be  obeyed,  however 
mortifying  it  was  to  me;  fresh  bills  were  issued  forth  with 
every  necessary  information  of  the  play  being  altered,  at 
the  universal  desire  of  persons  of  distinction,  to  'Love  in 
a  Village.'  At  that  time  York  races  were  remarkable  for 
attracting  the  first  families,  not  only  of  that  immense 
county,  but  the  kingdom  at  large ;  and  York  was  then 
honored  with  as  many  ladies  of  the  first  distinction  as 
gentlemen.  But  oh,  what  a  falling  off  is  there !  Oh,  woe 
is  me  to  have  seen  what  I  have  seen,  and  seeing  what  I 
see !  The  house  was  full,  and  the  boxes  were  much 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE,  67 

crowded  ;  and  my  only  care  for  the  evening  was  to  prepare 
for  the  Barber,  though  most  of  the  ladies  and  gentlemen 
would  not  wait  to  be  SHAVED  ;  but  to  those  who  did.  I  was 
not  much  indebted  for  the  compliment  of  their  attendance, 
as  too  sure  I  had  Pilgarlick's  ill  luck  again  ;  for  as  to  my 
resemblance  of  Woodward  it  did  not  occur  to  one  in  a 
hundred,  but  it  struck  the  fancy  of  the  million  that  it  was 
a  part  that  appertained  to  their  favorite  Robertson,  their 
darling  (and  deservedly  so,  for  he  was  a  comedian  of  true 
merit).  But  in  regard  to  my  playing  the  Barber,  my 
dressing  like  Woodward,  I  was  afterwards  informed,  was 
in  every  article  of  it  contrary  to  the  dress  of  Mr.  Robert- 
son ;  and  as  they  pinned  their  faith  upon  his  sleeve,  why 
be  was  right,  and  I  was  judged  wrong  in  every  particular  ; 
therefore  absurd  and  assuming  in  Wilkinson  to  attempt  Mr. 
Robertson's  part  of  the  Barber ;  he  would  spoil  it,  and 
was  impudent,  ignorant,  and  deserved  chastisement ;  and 
I  quitted  the  stage  the  third  night  with  an  universal  hiss 
and  general  marks  of  disapprobation.  It  was  to  me  a 
week  of  perplexity  and  woe — not  pleasure,  to  so  great  a 
man  as  /had  fancied  myself. 

"The  next  day  I  accidentally  stepped  into  a  milliner's 
shop,  where  a  little  elderly  lady  sat  knitting  in  the  corner, 
and  without  once  looking  at  me  on  my  entrance  (or  if  she 
had  she  would  not  have  known  me),  said,  'Well,  I  am  sure, 
Nanny,  you  never  shall  persuade  me  to  go  to  the  play  again 
to  see  that  hunch-backed  Barber.  Give  me  "The  Mourning 
Bride,"  and  Mr.  Frodsham,  and  then  there  is  some  sense 
in  it;  but  for  that  man,  that  Wilkinson,  as  you  call  him, 
from  London,  pray  let  him  go  back  and  stay  there,  for  he 
is  the  ugliest  man  I  ever  saw  in  my  life,  and  so  thought 
Nanny.  I  am  sure  if  he  was  worth  his  weight  in  gold  he 
should  never  marry  a  daughter  of  mine. '  I  turned  round 
to  her,  and  said,  '  Dear  Madam,  do  not  be  so  very  hard- 


68  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

hearted — try  the  theatre  once  more  when  I  play,  and  I  will 
exert  my  best  abilities  to  make  you  amends  and  deserve 
your  Better  sentiments.'  The  old  lady  stared,  down  dropped 
the  spectacles,  the  knitted  garters  followed  (which  had 
busily  employed  her  attention  while  speaking)  ;  and  with- 
out a  single  word  she  took  to  her  heels  (which  were  nimble), 
and  ran  away  out  of  the  back-door  into  New  Street. 

"  Not  having  finished  the  career  of  that  memorable  race 
week,  I  must  here  register  that  Fortune  had  not  ceased 
plaguing  me  with  my  performance  of  the  Barber;  for  on 
the  night  following  Mrs.  Centlivre's  play  of  the  'Busy- 
Body'  was  acted — Marplot,  Mr.  Frodsham ;  to  which  was 
added  my  highly-valued  tower  of  strength,  my  'Ville  de 
Paris,'  called  'Love  a  la  Mode.'  Thundering  applause 
and  shouts  of  expectation  had  pleasingly  disturbed  my 
sleep  the  night  before,  with  glorious  vast  ideas,  such  as 
expecting  thanks,  and  being  the  topic  of  admiring  conver- 
sation, for  the  favor  Mr.  Wilkinson  had  conferred  on  the 
town  by  so  good  and  unexpected  a  feast  as  Mr.  Macklin's 
'Love  a  la  Mode.'  Indeed,  one  material  point  was  gained, 
for  the  theatre  was  crowded  in  every  part.  The  York  audi- 
ence then  were  particularly  lukewarm  as  to  applause,  when 
compared  to  any  other  established  theatre.  But  that  serenity 
is  now  altered  as  if  the  children  of  another  soil — and  that 
sometimes  even  to  the  overdoing.  More  than  three  plau- 
dits, however  their  admiration  may  be  raised,  in  my  humble 
opinion  destroys  their  own  dignity,  and  three  is  full  suffi- 
cient for  any  performer's  greediness;  beyond,  enfeebles 
instead  of  strengthening  the  intended  effect. 

"But  to  return  to  'Love  a  la  Mode,'  in  which  the  first 
scene  being  merely  introductory,  not  any  applause  could 
have  been  extorted  from  any  audience ;  silence  and  atten- 
tion was  all  that  could  be  required,  and  that  was  granted. 
The  scene  of  the  Jew  (Beau  Mordecai)  followed  next: — 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE.  69 

not  a  smile ;  as  I  stood  behind  the  scenes  on  the  very  ten- 
ter-hooks of  expectation  my  vanity  attributed  that  only  to 
the  want  of  a  little  rousing  and  my  desired  appearance. 
A  rat-a-tat  at  the  stage-door,  and  now  for  it  I  says  I.  When 
I  entered  as  Sir  Archy,  scarcely  a  hand  !  My  heart  sank 
somewhere — no  matter  where.  I  said  to  myself,  for  com- 
fort, Assume  courage  I  I  tried  and  tried,  but  all  in  vain  : 
the  scene  dragged  and  grew  more  and  more  dull.  Next 
came  Sir  Callaghan,  whom  I  was  truly  glad  to  see,  as  it 
relieved  me  from  a  heavy  tedious  courtship  with  the  lady 
which  did  not  promise  much  better  success — any  change,  I 
trusted  would  be  for  the  better.  They  gave  applause  on 
seeing  Frodsham,  and  a  few  simpering  smiles  gave  me  a 
cheerer,  and  I  judged  all  would  be  for  the  better.  But 
when  I  as  Sir  Archy  and  he  as  Sir  Callaghan  were  left  to 
ourselves  in  the  quarreling  scene,  which  is  truly  well  exe- 
cuted by  the  author,  and  very  entertaining,  instead  of  peals 
of  laughter  which  I  had  assured  myself  would  follow,  and 
to  my  speeches  in  particular,  the  rail  assemblage  before  us 
seemed  as  if  by  magnetism  charmed  into  an  evening  nap — 
all  was  hush — they  appeared  perfectly  willing  to  grant  leave 
for  our  departure.  We  ended  the  act,  but  not  with  any 
honors  to  grace  the  remembrance — and  indeed  by  the  turn 
of  faces  in  the  boxes,  and  almost  in  every  other  part,  it  was 
very  perceptible  the  actors,  or  the  piece,  were  by  no  means 
approved.  I,  for  my  own  part,  as  an  actor,  never  felt  so 
severe  a  disappointment,  and  wished  for  the  week  over,  as 
I  could  then  take  my  leave  of  York  forever. 

"  While  the  music  was  playing  preparatory  to  the  second 
act,  Frodsham  flew  eagerly  to  get  relief  from  his  fetal  and 
false  friend,  the  brandy-bottle.  I  was  not  quite  so  rash, 
but  was  contented  with  sending  for  a  bottle  of  Madeira, 
of  which  I  took  large  a"nd  eager  libations.  Thus  armed 
(after  a  tedious  music)  by  the  inspiration  of  the  invinci- 


7o  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE   STAGE. 

ble  spirit  of  wine,  I  felt  bold,  and  sallied  forth  once  more 
to  take  the  field.  I  had  to  Frodsham  confessed  myself 
disappointed  and  hurt ;  however,  submissive  resignation  to 
the  decrees  of  the  Fates  was  indispensable ;  and  as  an 
honest  witness  on  a  trial  often  gives  weight  to  the  jury,  so 
did  I  rest  hopes  on  my  Squire  Groom's  setting  all  matters 
right ;  and  I  predicted,  that  when  the  curtain  dropped  I 
should  be  envious  of  his  receiving  all  the  honors  and 
praises  that  would,  from  the  part  being  so  applicable  to 
the  week,  insure  good  fortune.  When  Squire  Groom  made 
his  entree  in  his  new  dress  and  aw  his  pontificalibus,  ex- 
actly as  Mr.  King  had  accoutred  himself  at  London  when 
he  acted  that  part,  why  even  there  my  hopes  were  frus- 
trated ;  for  his  being  dressed  as  a  gentleman  who  had  been 
riding  his  own  match,  gave  offence  instead  of  being  pleas- 
ing to  the  gentlemen  of  the  turf;  it  was  sneered  at  as  im- 
pertinently taking  too  great  a  liberty  in  the  race  week  to 
have  any  freedom  of  character,  or  even  to  be  permitted  to 
pass,  at  a  time  when  the  whole  dependence  of  the  theatre 
rested  on  the  resort  of  company  that  attended  York  races. 
Squire  Groom's  scene  was  permitted  to  get  through  with 
difficulty — at  the  end  of  which,  apparent  disgust  and  weari- 
ness lessened  the  audience  every  minute,  and  then  vanished 
all  my  pleasing  prospect  of  profit  and  applause  from  my 
fancied  treasure  in  possessing  the  celebrated  farce  of  'Love 
a  la  Mode' ;  and  as  the  people  from  all  parts  hastily  re- 
tired, we  were  equally  quick  in  bringing  about  the  catas- 
trophe, and  were  not  under  much  terror  or  apprehension 
for  the  conclusion,  as  none  were  left  except  a  few  harmless 
gazers,  that  neither  cared  for  the  audience,  the  farce,  nor 
the  actors,  but  found  themselves  in  the  theatre  they  scarce 
kne-.v  how,  and  as  peaceably  departed  they  hardly  knew 
why." 

He  had  other  powers  to  conciliate,  as  will  be  seen  from 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE.  71 

the  account  of  his  giving  offense  to  the  officers  of  the 
militia  then  quartered  in  the  town  : — 

"  I  ever  worked  like  a  horse  at  a  mill  to  deserve  my  en- 
gagement, whether  in  town  or  country.  My  benefit  was 
appointed,  at  my  desire,  on  Monday,  October  3.  That 
day,  I  beg  the  reader  will  notice,  was  the  first  day  of  the 
militia's  assembling.  My  bill  of  that  night  was  nearly  as 
follows : — '  The  last  night. — "  The  Rehearsal"  :  Bayes,  Mr. 
Wilkinson.  End  of  the  play,  by  particular  desire,  the 
principal  scene  from  the  new  farce  called  "  The  Mayor  of 
Garratt"  ;  the  character  of  Major  Sturgeon  (of  the  West- 
minster militia)  by  Mr.  Wilkinson :  also  a  scene  from 
"The  Orators"  ;  Peter  Paragraph  by  Mr.  Wilkinson  :  with 
the  farce  of  "The  Citizen"  ;  Young  Philpot,  Mr.  Wilkin- 
son.' Surely  I  gave  them  enough  for  their  money,  what- 
ever it  might  want  in  quality.  The  house  was  crowded  in 
every  part,  particularly  the  stage,  by  gentlemen,  for  want 
of  room  in  the  front  of  the  house.  The  officers  of  the 
new  militia  were  all  there,  and  at  their  head  the  ever- 
entertaining  Chace  Price,  whom  I  rejoiced  to  see:  he  had 
sent  me  a  compliment  at  noon  (being  my  benefit),  and  was 
between  the  acts  in  "great  spirits,  chatting  with  me  and 
others.  At  the  end  of  the  comedy  of  '  The  Rehearsal'  he 
desired  to  wish  Mr.  Bayes  good-night,  as  he  found  himself 
much  fatigued  with  his  journey,  and  expected  a  severe  bout 
the  next  day  with  the  bottle  at  the  mess  where  he  was  pres- 
ident ;  he  said  he  would  get  a  good  night's  rest,  having 
traveled  from  London  to  Shrewsbury  without  going  to 
bed.  On  his  departure  I  retired  to  dress  for  the  new  part 
of  Major  Sturgeon  (the  reader  will  observe  that  farce  was 
not  then  in  print).  On  my  appearance  behind  the  scenes 
as  the  Major,  I  thought  the  countenances  of  several  of  the 
officers  did  not  augur  a  pleasing  aspect  to  my  intended 
performance ;  but  not  supposing  any  violent  anger  could 


72  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

possibly  arise  without  a  sufficient  cause,  hoped  I  should  be 
made  ample  amends  by  the  smiling  faces  and  laughing 
cheeks  in  front  of  the  theatre.  But  the  new  commanders 
not  having  been  at  that  juncture  in  London,  when  Mr. 
Foote's  '  Mayor  of  Garratt'  was  acting,  they  knew  nothing 
of  its  fashionable  ton  there,  or  if  they  did,  would  not  allow- 
that  as  a  sufficient  plea  for  them,  as  men  of  valor,  why  they 
should  not  resent  an  injurious  affront,  from  what  they  looked 
on  as  an  unjustifiable  and  intentional  insult ;  they  therefore 
one  and  all  pressed  so  hard  and  close  together  at  the  first 
wing,  where  I  was  to  make  my  entrance,  as  to  prevent  the 
possibility  of  gaining  admittance  on  the  stage ;  and  had  not 
Roger  the  Bumpkin,  servant  to  the  Justice,  Sir  Jacob  Jol- 
lup,  cried  out  on  the  stage,  '  Pray  ye,  gentlemen,  pray  ye 
let  Major  Fish  come  to  visit  my  master,'  they  actually 
would  not  have  suffered  me  to  pass ;  but  from  conscious 
shame  and  the  hissing  of  the  audience,  I  was  at  last  (but 
not  without  much  difficulty)  permitted  to  enter;  and  I 
verily  believe,  had  they  not  so  pointedly  marked  their  in- 
dignation, the  bulk  of  the  hearers  would  have  passed  the 
secret  over  as  incomprehensible ;  but  such  a  remarkable 
and  violent  contempt  offered  to  me  was  easily  perceived 
by  them,  and  once  conceived,  their  ideas  swiftly  commu- 
nicated like  gunpowder,  when  I  came  to  the  passage  where 
Major  Sturgeon  relates  to  the  Justice: — 

"  '  On  we  marched,  the  men  all  in  high  spirits,  to  attack 
the  gibbet  where  Gardel  is  hanging ;  but  turning  down  a 
narrow  lane  to  the  left,  as  it  might  be  about  there,  in  order  to 
possess  a  pig's  stye,  that  we  might  take  the  gallows  in  flank, 
and  at  all  events  secure  a  retreat,  who  should  come  by  but 
a  drove  of  fat  oxen  for  Smithfield.  The  drums  beat  in  the 
front,  the  dogs  barked  in  the  rear,  the  oxen  set  up  a  gallop  ; 
on  they  came  thundering  upon  us,  broke  through  our  ranks 
in  an  instant,  and  threw  the  whole  corps  into  confusion.' 


OLD   YORK  THEATRE.  73 

"  Now,  reader,  consider,  that  however  outre  and  ridicu- 
lous this  speech  from  fancy  was  formed  by  the  author,  Mr. 
Foote,  the  whole  circumstance  had  in  similarity  happened 
that  very  day  in  every  ludicrous  point;  and,  in  conse- 
quence, the  offended  party  swore  that  particular  passage 
must  be  the  offspring  of  my  own  brain,  and  done  as  an 
impudent  and  intentional  disgrace  to  them ;  and  when  the 
tumult  of  laughter  from  the  audience  allowed  permission 
for  me  to  proceed  with — 'The  Major's  horse  took  fright, 
away  he  scoured  over  the  heath.  That  gallant  commander 
stuck  both  his  spurs  into  the  flank,  and  for  some  time  held 
by  his  mane ;  but  in  crossing  a  ditch,  the  horse  reared  up 
his  head,  gave  the  Major  a  dowse  in  the  chops,  and  threw 
that  gallant  commander  into  a  ditch  near  the  Powder  Mills' 
— the  officers  were  incensed  to  such  a  degree  that  they  left 
the  theatre  in  dudgeon,  vowing  vengeance.  When  I  was 
undressed,  and  prepared  to  go  to  my  own  lodgings,  I  had 
information  that  a  sergeant  with  five  or  six  soldiers  were  in 
waiting,  with  orders,  not  only  to  beat  unmercifully,  but  to 
duck  poor  Major  Sturgeon  in  the  river ;  so,  instead  of  being 
lighted  home,  I  acted  as  servant,  after  all  my  fatigue,  and 
lighted  others.  I  got  to  a  house  where  Mrs.  Price  and  a 
Mrs.  Lewis  lived,  and  ordered  the  account  of  the  house  to 
be  brought  there  and  settled.  Mr.  Littlehale,  a  friend  of 
mine,  well  known  at  Shrewsbury,  was  there.  Dame  Price 
(my  tragedy  queen  at  Portsmouth  in  1757)  escorted  us  up- 
stairs ;  the  kitchen  had  an  entrance  on  each  side  of  the 
house.  She  had  undertaken  as  my  old  acquaintance  to 
look  well  to  my  playhouse  doors,  and  with  an  observant 
eye  mind  all  was  honor  bright,  where  that  tempting  situa- 
tion of  taking  money  was  transacted — that  essential  article 
for  real  kings,  queens,  generals,  fine  gentlemen,  and  fine 
ladies;  for  be  it  known,  there  is  as  much  anxiety  and  sus- 
picion on  a  benefit  night  out  of  London,  and  it  is  looked 
n  7 


74 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


on  as  necessary  to  be  as  well  guarded,  as  the  bank  of  Eng- 
land when  threatened  with  conflagration  and  a  riot.  Any 
gentleman  who  holds  half  an  hour's  noon  conversation  with 
an  actor  in  the  country,  must  have  observed  the  following 
remarks  and  answers : — '  The  house  on  such  a  night  was 
not  well  counted.'  '  Such  a  night  the  house  was  not  well 
gathered.'  'The  checks  were  not  right.'  'One  of  the 
doorkeepers  was  seen  to  let  up  several  without  taking  any 
money.'  'Another  doorkeeper  took  six  shillings,  but  re- 
turned two  to  prove  his  honesty.' 

"These  sayings  are  often  without  foundation,  but  I  am 
afraid  at  times  are  known  to  be  too  true.  So  Mrs.  Price's 
inspection  into  the  deeds  of  the  doorkeepers,  with  thinking 
eyes,  was  truly  necessary  ;  but  Mr.  Littlehale  and  I  had  not 
regaled  an  hour  before  every  window  below  stairs  was  sud- 
denly broken.  The  militia  officers,  at  the  head  of  some 
myrmidons,  rushed  into  the  house,  and  furiously  demanded 
Wilkinson ;  being  assured  I  neither  lodged  nor  visited 
there,  they  retired  eagerly  through  the  opposite  door  of  the 
kitchen  in  determined  search  of  their  destined  prey,  having 
been  at  my  lodgings  first.  However,  on  their  departure  I 
had  that  great  restorative  elixir,  those  golden  drops,  as 
Major  O' Flaherty  says,  which  healed  all  my  grievances; 
for  out  of  an  old  crazy  tin  and  some  wooden  boxes  I  poured 
a  plentiful  libation  of  gold  and  silver  .coin,  the  produce  of 
Mexico  and  Peru,  which  presented  as  charming  a  lava  as 
can  be  conceived. 

"After  my  incredible  fatigues  and  a  comfortable  bowl, 
I  got  safely  to  rest,  and  late  the  next  day  attended  my 
good  friend  Chace  Price.  He  declared  he  saw  me  with 
the  utmost  regret  and  chagrin,  lamented  his  early  departure 
from  the  theatre,  as  had  he  stayed  he  would  have  effectually 
put  a  stop  to  such  brutish  outrage ;  hoped  I  would  think 
no  more  of  it.  If  I  imagined,  he  said,  that  the  officers 


OLD    YORK  THEATRE.  75 

bespeaking  a  play  with  his  name  at  the  head  would  be  of 
service,  he  would  exert  all  his  interest.  I  told  him  the 
accidental  affray  the  night  before  dwelt  on  my  mind  with 
very  disagreeable  reflections,  as  the  consequence  might 
have  proved  dangerous.  As  to  the  play  the  next  night,  I 
desired  it  might  be  understood  I  had  no  advantage  from 
it,  nor  would  I  receive  any ;  but  as  it  would  certainly  serve 
the  company,  I  accepted  it  so  far  as  a  compliment,  and 
my  services  that  evening  he  might  command.  He  replied, 
*  he  was  obliged  to  me,'  and  ordered  the  players  to  per- 
form '  The  Recruiting  Officer,'  as  the  scene  lay  at  Shrews- 
bury, and  desired  I  would  repeat  Young  Philpot  in  *  The 
Citizen.'  He  appointed  Thursday  instead  of  Wednesday  ; 
as  on  the  Wednesday  he  had  a  venison  dinner,  and  devoted 
the  day  to  his  friends,  amongst  which  number  he  honored 
me,  and  insisted  on  my  dining  with  him  at  the  Raven  on 
that  occasion.  I  made  my  compliments  in  return,  and 
assured  him  I  would  attend  his  summons  with  infinite 
pleasure.  I  was  on  that  day  a  little  after  my  time,  a.  fault  I 
have  been  often  told  of;  but  on  his  left  hand,  at  the  upper 
end  of  the  table,  the  head  seat  had  been  purposely  reserved 
for  me,  and  the  apparent  intimacy  and  respect  he  honored 
me  with  made  the  officers  stare  and  think  they  were  in  the 
wrong  box,  by  the  contempt  they  wished  to  have  shown 
the  player.  The  dinner  was  good ;  the  wine  was  good  ; 
but  Chace  Price  was  superior  to  both.  Mirth  went  round, 
enjoying  the  feast  of  friendship  and  the  flow  of  soul.  Sing- 
ing was  mentioned ;  Chace  Price  said  humorously  he  must 
first  have  a  rehearsal;  for,  as  his  friend  Wilkinson  was 
going  to  leave  Shrewsbury  in  a  few  days,  without  one  he 
should  be  imperfect  and  forget  his  part ;  and  begged  the 
favor  of  me  to  repeat  his  favorite  scene  from  the  new  farce 
of  '  The  Mayor  of  Garratt,'  and  if  I  would  act  the  Major, 
be  was  certain  be  could  recollect  Sir  Jacob  Jollup,  as  he 


76 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


had  seen  it  that  summer  in  London  so  often ;  which  was 
strictly  true.  His  memory  was  excellent. 

"  Well,  we  acted  the  scene,  which  was  highly  relished. 
The  good-humored  intention  was  smoked,  and  it  ended 
with  an  afternoon  and  evening  all  in  perpetual  harmony  ; 
animosity  or  discord  was  no  more  thought  of." 

Such  is  a  glimpse  of  an  old  provincial  theatre  which  in 
"its  day  nursed  many  useful  performers  for  the  London 
stage.  It  had  its  use,  too,  in  mollifying  rustic  manners, 
and  imparting  at  least  some  elements  of  taste.  In  this  ex- 
cellent school,  and  from  such  rude  trials  as  have  been  just 
described,  the  comedian  learned  self-reliance,  and  found 
his  self-conceit — the  bane  of  the  rising  actor — wholesomely 
corrected.  Thus  prepared,  he  was  ready,  when  the  chance 
offered,  to  take  a  creditable  position  on  the  London  stage. 

We  shall  now  shift  the  scene  to  the  great  metropolitan 
houses,  selecting  each  episode  with  a  view  to  its  being  an 
illustration  of  some  era  in  stage  life  and  adventure.  - 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE    STORY    OF    GEORGE    ANNE    BELLAMY.' 
1750-80. 


A  BEAUTIFUL  woman  whose  chief  attraction  is  in  her 
beauty,  is  scarcely  seen  at  her  best  upon  the  stage.  This 
may  seem  a  little  strange,  as  it  might  reasonably  be  sup- 
posed that  the  position  is  peculiarly  favorable  to  a  display 
of  natural  charms.  But  more  is  requisite,  as  will  be  seen 

*  Born  1731,  died  1788. 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.      77 

from  the  system  that  has  recently  prevailed,  when  it  has 
become  fashionable  for  a  patron  to  take  a  theatre  specially 
for  the  exhibition  of  some  fair  enslaver,  who  would  other- 
wise have  no  opportunity  of  exhibiting  her  gifts.  A  glit- 
tering framework  is  thus  provided  for  the  picture :  in  other 
words  the  theatre  is  beautified  at  a  vast  expense,  and  a  piece 
chosen  so  constructed  as  to  provide  for  the  display  of  at 
least  one  magnificent  dress  during  each  act.  This  rather 
inartistic  system,  by  a  curious  law  of  retribution,  is  de- 
structive of  itself  and  its  principles;  for  the  beautiful 
woman,  who  has  thus  secured  an  advantage  denied  to  the 
claims  of  her  own  gifts,  is  thrust  into  a  situation  of  con- 
spicuous responsibility  which  she  has  not  strength  to 
support,  and  the  result  is  failure.  This  is  owing  to  the 
ludicrous  contrast  between  the  pretentious  and  glittering 
surroundings  and  the  feeble  talent  that  is  thus  unduly 
adorned,  while  the  experiment  invariably  fails,  as  many 
noble  patrons  have  lately  learned  at  a  ruinous  cost.  It 
is  curious  that  in  France,  where  there  is  little  regard  for 
public  decency,  no  such  proceeding  as  this  would  be  toler- 
ated, and  playgoers  would  not  allow  their  interest  in  the 
stage  to  be  sacrificed  to  the  partiality  of  a  wealthy  patron. 
In  the  last  century,  however,  the  beautiful  woman  found 
her  way  to  the  stage  on  more  rigorous  terms.  The  two 
great  theatres  of  Drury  Lane  and  Coven  t  Garden  offered  a 
long  list  of  stock  tragedies  and  comedies,  each  an  impor- 
tant, well-tried  piece  whose  merits  had  been  set  off  by  a 
succession  of  fine  actors  and  actresses.  These  parts  became 
favorite  tests  of  the  abilities  of  rising  players  much  as 
Norma  and  Lucia,  Gilda  or  Valentine,  are  attempted  by 
candidates  on  the  operatic  stage.  Such  parts  become 
gradually  enriched  by  brilliant  traditions,  all  the  varied 
abilities  of  successive  performers  contributing.  For  one 
of  our  modern  beautiful  women,  such  a  probation  would 
7* 


7  8  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

be  utterly  disastrous,  but  in  the  last  century  it  became  an 
absolute  necessity.  She  might  have  her  patron  who  would 
help  to  secure  the  entree,  but  the  ability  must  be  forthcom- 
ing. And  there  followed  this  happy  result — that  the  stage 
was  adorned  with  charming  and  attractive  figures  accom- 
panied with  talents  of  the  highest  order,  while  the  audience 
was  gratified  with  the  spectacle  of  beauty  and  wit  united. 
Mrs.  Woffington,  Mrs.  Hartley,  Mrs.  Baddeley,  Mrs.  Yates, 
and  Mrs.  Bellamy,  all  adorned  the  stage  and  at  the  same 
time  entertained  the  public.  The  pictures  of  these  ladies 
— their  superb  dresses,  handsome  figures  full  of  expression 
and  grace — are  singularly  interesting  ;  and  certainly  not 
the  least  attractive  is  the  "blue-eyed  Bellamy,"  whose 
curious  story  shall  now  be  presented.  She  was  the  illegiti- 
mate daughter  of  the  Lord  Tyrawley  who  is  mentioned  in 
no  very  complimentary  terms  by  Pope — an  old  roue,  who 
had  served  with  some  distinction  in  both  diplomacy  and  in 
the  wars.  The  young  heroine,  George  Anne  as  she  was 
christened,  was  brought  up  in  a  French  convent,  but  her 
father,  who  had  been  appointed  ambassador  to  Russia,  an- 
nounced that  he  would  not  support  her  or  her  mother  any 
longer.  Thus  abandoned,  by  a  fortunate  accident  she  at- 
tracted the  notice  of  Rich,  the  manager  of  Covent  Garden 
Theatre,  who  happened  to  be  passing  close  to  where  some 
girls  were  rehearsing  scraps  of  plays  :- 

"Attracted,  as  he  afterwards  said,  by  the  powerful  sweet- 
ness of  the  Moor's  voice,  which  he  declared  to  be  superior 
to  any  he  had  ever  heard,  he  listened  without  interrupting 
our  performance;  but  as  soon  as  it  was  concluded,  he  en- 
tered the  room,  and  paid  me  a  thousand  compliments  on 
my  theatrical  abilities.  Among  other  things,  he  said  that 
in  his  opinion  I  should  make  one  of  the  first  actresses  in 
the  world;  adding,  that  if  I  could  turn  my  thoughts  to  the 
stage,  he  should  be  happy  to  engage  me. 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.      79 

"  Not  a  little  vain  of  receiving  these  encomiums  from  a 
person  who,  from  his  situation,  must  be  a  competent  judge, 
I  went  home  and  informed  my  mother  of  what  had  hap- 
pened. At  first  she  was  averse  to  my  accepting  the  pro- 
posal, having  experienced  herself  all  the  disadvantages 
attendant  on  a  theatrical  life;  but  Mrs.  Jackson  uniting 
her  persuasions  to  those  of  Mr.  Rich,  she  at  length  con- 
sented. She,  however,  complied  only  on  conditions  that 
the  manager  would  assure  her  of  his  supporting  me  in  a 
capital  line.  This  Mr.  Rich' agreed  to  do. 

"  At  the  time  I  entered  into  an  engagement  with  Mr.  Rich 
Is  wa  just  fourteen ;  of  a  figure  not  inelegant,  a  powerful 
voice,  light  as  the  gossamer,  of  inexhaustible  spirits,  and 
possessed  of  some  humor.  From  these  qualifications  he 
formed  the  most  sanguine  hopes  of  my  success,  and  de- 
termined that  I  should  immediately  make  trial  of  them. 
I  had  perfected  myself  in  the  two  characters  of  Monimia 
and  Athenais,  and,  according  to  my  own  judgment,  had 
made  no  inconsiderable  proficiency  in  them.  The  former 
was  fixed  on  for  my  first  appearance. 

"  Mr.  Rich  now  thought  it  time  to  introduce  me  to  Mr. 
Quin,  then  the  most  capital  performer  at  Covent  Garden : 
and  capital  he  was,  indeed,  in  those  characters  which  his 
figure  suited.  This  gentleman,  at  that  period,  governed 
the  theatre  with  a  rod  of  iron.  Mr.  Rich,  though  the 
proprietor,  was,  through  his  indolence,  a  mere  cipher. 
After  waiting  some  time  at  the  door  of  the  lion's  den,  as 
the  people  of  the  theatre  had  denominated  Mr.  Quin's 
dressing-room,  we  were  at  length  admitted.  It  is  necessary 
here  to  observe  that  this  gentleman  never  condescended 
to  enter  the  green-room,  or  to  mix  with  the  other  perform- 
ers, all  of  whom  he  was  unacquainted  with,  except  Mr. 
Ryan,  for  whom  he  entertained  a  particular  friendship 
which  lasted  till  Mr.  Ryan's  death. 


8o  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

"  He  no  sooner  heard  Mr.  Rich  propose  my  appearing 
in  the  character  of  Monimia,  than  with  the  most  sovereign 
contempt  he  cried  out,  '  It  will  not  do,  sir  !'  Upon  which 
the  manager,  to  his  infinite  surprise,  replied,  '  It  shall  do, 
sir!'  I  was  so  frightened  at  Mr.  Quin's  austere  deport- 
ment, that  had  he  requested  me  to  give  him  a  specimen  of 
my  abilities,  it  would  not  have  been  in  my  power.  But  he 
held  me  too  cheap  to  put  me  to  the  trial.  After  some  further 
altercation  had  passed,  which  was  not  much  in  my  favor, 
Mr.  Quin  at  last  deigned  to  look  at  me,  saying  at  the  same 
time,  'Child,  I  would  advise  you  to  play  Serina  before  you 
think  of  Monimia.'  This  sarcasm  roused  my  spirits,  which 
before  were  much  sunk,  and  I  pertly  replied,  '  If  I  did,  sir, 
I  should  never  live  to  play  the  Orphan.' 

"  It  may  be  supposed  that  this  conversation  was  not  very 
pleasing  to  me.  As  for  Mr.  Rich,  the  opposition  he  met 
with  seemed  to  increase  his  resolution,  and  taking  me  by 
the  hand,  he  led  me  out  of  the  dressing-room,  assuring  me 
aloud,  that,  let  who  would  oppose,  he  would  protect  me; 
and  would  let  every  one  in  the  company  know  that  he 
would  be  the  master  of  it,  when  he  chose  to  be  at  the 
trouble.  Before  he  quitted  the  scenes,  he  ordered  the 
prompter  to  call  a  rehearsal  of  'The  Orphan'  the  next 
morning.  When  that  hour  arrived,  the  two  gentlemen  who 
were  to  play  my  lovers,  Castalio  and  Polydore,  in  order  to 
pay  their  court  to  Mr.  Quin,  did  not  think  proper  to  appear. 
Mr.  Rich,  however,  to  convince  them  he  would  be  obeyed, 
fined  them  more  than  the  usual  mulct.  Even  Serina,  who 
was  only  an  attendant  upon  tragedy  queens,  smiled  con- 
temptuously on  the  poor  Orphan. 

"  Mr.  Rich  kindly  endeavored,  by  every  means  in  his 
power,  to  support  me  under  this  mortifying  opposition  ; 
and  he  took  a  very  effectual  method  of  doing  it.  The 
dresses  of  the  theatrical  ladies  were  at  this  period  very  dif- 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY,     gl 

ferent.  The  empresses  and  queens  were  confined  to  black 
velvet  except  on  extraordinary  occasions,  when  they  put 
on  an  embroidered  or  tissue  petticoat.  The  young  ladies 
generally  appeared  in  a  cast  gown  of  some  person  of 
quality ;  and  as  at  this  epoch  the  women  of  that  denom- 
ination were  not  blest  with  the  taste  of  the  present  age, 
and  had  much  more  economy,  the  stage  brides  and  vir- 
gins often  made  their  appearance  in  altered  habits,  rather 
soiled.  As  the  manager  had  in  his  juvenile  days  made 
the  fair  sex  his  principal  study,  and  found  the  love  of 
dress  their  darling  foible,  he  concluded  that,  as  a  true 
daughter  of  Eve,  I  was  not  exempt  from  it.  He  there- 
fore thought  there  could  be  no  better  method  of  putting 
me  in  a  good  humor  with  myself,  and  compensating  for 
the  affronts  I  had  lately  received,  than  by  taking  me  to  his 
mercer's,  and  permitting  me  to  choose  the  clothes  I  was  to 
appear  in. 

"  The  following  morning  Castalio  and  Pol)  dore  attended 
the  rehearsal,  but  my  brother  Chamont  was  inexorable. 
Mr.  Hale  mumbltd  aver  Castalio,  and  Mr.  .Ryan  whistled 
Polydore.  This  gentleman,  from  the  accident  of  having 
been  shot  in  the  mouth  by  ruffians,  had  a  tremor  in  his 
voice,  which  till  you  were  accustomed  to  it,  was  very  dis- 
agreeable. But  from  his  utility  in  playing  every  night, 
the  discordance  of  it  grew  familiar  to  the  ear,  and  was  not 
so  displeasing. 

"  Mr.  Ryan  might  truly  have  been  denominated,  in  the 
theatrical  phrase,  a  wear-and-tear  man ;  that  is,  one  who 
has  constant  employment,  and  fills  a  part  in  almost  every 
piece  that  is  performed.  This  frequently  occasioned  his 
coming  late  to  the  theatre.  I  have  known  him  come  at 
the  time  the  last  music  has  been  playing ;  when  he  has 
accosted  the  shoeblack  at  the  stage  door  in  his  usual  trem- 
ulous tone  (which  it  is  impossible  to  give  those  an  idea  of 
D* 


82  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

on  paper  that  never  heard  it,  but  those  who  have  will 
easily  recollect  it)  with  '  Boy,  clean  rny  shoes.' 

"As  soon  as  this  needful  operation  has  been  performed, 
he  has  hastened  to  his  dressing-room,  and  having  hurried 
on  an  old  laced  coat  and  waistcoat,  not  a  little  the  worse 
for  wear,  a  tye-wig  pulled  buckishly  over  his  forehead,  and 
in  the  identical  black  worsted  stockings  he  had  on  when  he 
entered  the  house,  ordered  the  curtain  to  be  drawn  up. 
Thus  adorned,  he  would  then  make  his  appearance  in  the 
character  of  Lord  Townley ;  and,  in  the  very  tone  of  voice 
in  which  he  had  addressed  his  intimate  of  the  brush,  ex- 
claim, 

Why  did  I  marry ;   was  it  not  evident,'  &c. 

And  in  the  same  harsh  monotony  did  that  gentleman  speak 
every  part  he  played. 

"It  will  likewise  be  seen  from  it,  that  the  dress  of  the 
gentlemen,  both  of  the  sock  and  buskin,  was  full  as  absurd 
as  that  of  the  ladies.  Whilst  the  empresses  and  queens  ap- 
peared in  black  velvet,  and,  upon  extraordinary  occasions, 
with  the  additional  finery  of  an  embroidered  or  tissue  petti- 
coat;  and  the  younger  part  of  the  females  in  cast  gowns 
of  persons  of  quality,  or  altered  habits  rather  soiled — the 
male  part  of  the  dramatis  persontz  strutted  in  tarnished 
laced  coats  and  waistcoats,  full  bottom  or  tye-wigs,  and 
black  worsted  stockings. 

"The  dreaded  evening  at  length  arrived.  Previous  to 
it,  Mr.  Quin  having  in  all  companies  declared  it  as  his 
opinion  that  I  should  not  succeed,  Mr.  Rich,  on  the  con- 
trary, having  been  as  lavish  in  my  praise,  the  public 
curiosity  was  much  more  exoited  than  if  there  had  been 
no  contention  about  me.  The  curtain  drew  up  to  a  splen- 
did audience,  which  seldom  happened  at  Covent  Garden 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.     83 

Theatre,  except  when  a  new  or  revived  pantomime  was 
represented. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  describe  my  sensations  on  my  first 
entrance.  I  was  so  much  dazzled  by  the  lights  and  stunned 
by  the  repeated  plaudits,  that  I  was  for  some  time  deprived 
both  of  memory  and  voice.  I  stood  like  a  statue.  Till 
compassion  for  my  youth,  and  probably  some  preposses- 
sion for  my  figure,  and  dress t  which  was  simply  fltgaat,  a 
circumstance  not  very  customary,  induced  a  gentleman 
who  was  dictator  to  the  pit,  and  therefore  ludicrously  de- 
nominated Mr.  Town  (Mr.  Chitty),  to  call  out,  and  order 
the  curtain  to  be  dropped  till  I  could  recover  my  confusion. 

"This  caused  Mr.  Quin  to  exult  so  much,  that  Mr. 
Rich  entreated  me  in  the  most  earnest  manner  to  exert 
my  powers.  But  his  entreaties  were  ineffectual ;  for  when 
I  made  the  next  attempt  my  apprehensions  so  totally  over- 
powered me,  that  I  could  scarcely  be  heard  in  the  side 
boxes.  The  applause,  indeed,  was  so  universal,  during 
the  first  act,  for  what  did  not  reach  the  ears  of  the  audi- 
ence, that,  had  I  possessed  my  full  powers  of  exertion,  they 
could  not  have  profited  by  them. 

'*  The  manager  having  pledged  himself  for  my  success, 
he  had  planted  all  his  friends  in  different  parts  of  the  house, 
to  insure  it.  But  when  he  found  that  I  was  unable  to  raise 
my  spirits,  he  was  as  distracted  as  if  his  own  fate,  and  that 
of  his  theatre,  had  depended  upon  it. 

"  He  once  more  had  recourse  to  persuasion  and  encour- 
agement ;  but  nothing  could  rouse  me  from  my  stupidity 
till  the  fourth  act.  This  was  the  critical  period  which 
was  to  determine  my  fate.  By  this  criterion  was  I,  as  an 
actress,  to  stand  or  fall.  When,  to  the  astonishment  of 
the  audience,  the  surprise  of  the  performers,  and  the 
exultation  of  the  manager,  I  felt  myself  suddenly  inspired. 
I  blazed  out  at  once  with  meridian  splendor ;  and  I  ac- 


8  4  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

quitted  myself  throughout  the  whole  of  this  most  arduous 
part  of  the  character,  in  which  even  many  veterans  have 
failed,  with  the  greatest  eclat. 

"  Mr.  Quin  was  so  fascinated  (as  he  expressed  himself) 
at  this  unexpected  exertion,  that  he  waited  behind  the 
scenes  till  the  conclusion  of  the  act ;  when,  lifting  me 
up  from  the  ground  in  a  transport,  he  exclaimed  aloud, 
'  Thou  art  a  divine  creature,  and  the  true  spirit  is  in  thee  !' 
The  audience,  likewise,  honored  me  with  the  highest  marks 
of  their  approbation.  As  for  Mr.  Rich,  he  expressed  as 
much  triumph  upon  this  occasion  as  he  usually  did  on  the 
success  of  one  of  his  darling  pantomimes. 

"The  performers,  who,  half  an  hour  before,  had  looked 
upon  me  as  an  object  of  pity,  now  crowded  around  me  to 
load  me  with  compliments  of  gratulation.  And  Mr.  Quin, 
in  order  to  compensate  for  the  contempt  with  which  he 
had  treated  me,  was  warmer,  if  possible,  in  his  eulogiums 
than  he  had  been  in  his  sarcasms." 

II. 

"  I  had,  at  this  period,  the  happiness  to  acquire  the  ap- 
probation and  patronage  of  two  ladies  of  the  first  distinc- 
tion— the  late  Duchess  of  Montague,  then  Lady  Cardigan, 
and  her  Grace  of  Queensberry.  Both  these  ladies  favored 
me  with  their  support,  so  far  as  to  grace  the  theatre  when- 
ever I  performed — an  attention  which  was  the  more  flat- 
tering, as  the  latter  had  not  honored  a  playhouse  with  her 
presence  since  the  death  of  her  favorite  Gay. 

"  Some  days  before  that  fixed  for  my  benefit,  I  received 
a  message,  whilst  I  was  at  the  theatre,  to  be  at  Queens- 
berry  House  the  next  day  by  twelve  o'clock.  As  I  thought 
it  likewise  incumbent  on  me  to  wait  on  the  Countess  of 
Cardigan,  who  had  honored  me  with  equal  marks  of  appro- 
bation, I  dressed  myself  early,  and,  taking  a  chair,  went 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.      85 

first  to  Privy  Garden.  I  had  there  every  reason  to  be 
pleased  with  the  reception  her  Ladyship  gave  me,  who 
joined  politeness  to  every  virtue. 

"But  at  Queensberry  House,  my  reception  was  far 
otherwise.  Her  Grace  was  determined  to  mortify  my 
vanity,  before  she  promoted  my  interest.  Quite  elated 
with  Lady  Cardigan's  flattering  behavior,  I  ordered  the 
chairmen  to  proceed  to  Queensberry  House.  Soon  after 
the  rat-tat  had  been  given,  and  my  name  announced  to  the 
porter,  the  groom  of  the  chambers  appeared.  I  desired 
him  to  acquaint  her  Grace,  that  I  was  come  to  wait  upon 
her.  But  how  was  I  surprised,  when  he  returned  and  in- 
formed me,  that  her  Grace  knew  no  such  person  !  My 
astonishment  at  this  message  was  greatly  augmented  by  the 
certainty  I  entertained  of  a  ready  admittance.  I  assured 
the  domestic  that  it  was  by  the  Duchess's  own  directions  I 
had  taken  the  liberty  to  wait  on  her.  To  which  he  replied, 
that  there  must  have  been  some  mistake  in  the  delivery  of 
it.  In  this  mortifying  situation  I  had  nothing  to  do  but 
return  home.  Ludicrous  and  humiliating  as  the  foregoing 
scene  must  be,  I  cannot  avoid  relating  it,  as  it  may  serve 
as  a  lesson  to  many,  who  too  readily  give  way  to  the  im- 
pulses of  vanity.  Young  minds  are  naturally  prone  to  it. 
Mine  consequently  was.  And  this  well-timed  rebuke,  how- 
ever grating,  was  the  greatest  proof  of  regard  her  Grace 
could  have  given  me. 

"  I  went  home  with  no  very  pleasing  sensations,  as  I  ex- 
pected to  receive  the  taunts  of  a  female  relation  upon  the 
occasion,  who  had  lately  arrived  from  Ireland,  and  on 
whom  my  mother  doted.  As  this  person  will  be  frequently 
mentioned  in  the  course  of  my  narrative,  and  was  the 
cause  of  many  of  the  inconveniences  I  afterwards  suffered, 
it  may  not  be  amiss  to  acquaint  you,  that  her  deformed 
body  was  a  fit  receptacle  for  her  depraved  mind. 


86  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

"  Upon  my  entering  the  green-room,  I  was  accosted  by 
Prince  Lobkowitz,  who  was  then  there  in  a  public  char- 
acter, requesting  a  box  at  my  benefit,  for  the  corps  diplo- 
matique. After  thanking  his  Highness  for  the  honor  in- 
tended me,  I  informed  him  that  they  might  be  accommo- 
dated with  a  stage  box ;  and  sending  for  the  house-keeper, 
desired  he  would  make  an  entry  in  his  book  to  this  pur- 
pose. But  how  great  was  my  surprise,  when  he  acquainted 
me  I  had  not  a  box  to  dispose  of;  every  one,  except  those 
of  the  Countess  of  Cardigan,  the  Duchess  Dowager  of 
Leeds,  and  Lady  Shaftesbury,  being  retained  for  her  Grace 
the  Duchess  of  Queensberry.  I  could  not  help  thinking 
but  the  man  was  joking,  as  he  himself  had  delivered  me 
the  message  from  her  Grace  the  night  before,  and  that  I 
found  to  be  a  deception.  He  however  still  persisted  in 
what  he  said,  and  further  added,  that  the  Duchess  had  like- 
wise sent  for  two  hundred  and  fifty  tickets.  This  made  me 
more  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  cavalier  treatment  I  had 
received  in  the  morning. 

"  His  Highness  Prince  Lobkowitz  condescended  to  put 
up  with  a  balcony  for  himself  and  friends;  and  I  hastened 
home,  at  once  to  make  known  to  my  mother  my  good  for- 
tune, and  to  retaliate  upon  my  inimical  relation.  To  add 
to  my  satisfaction,  when  I  got  home,  I  found  a  note  from 
her  Grace,  desiring  I  would  wait  upon  her  the  next  morning. 
This  being  such  an  evident  proof  of  my  veracity,  which  it 
had  given  me  inexpressible  uneasiness  to  have  doubted,  I 
experienced  proportionable  pleasure  from  it. 

"I  was,  notwithstanding,  so  apprehensive  of  meeting 
with  a  second  mortification,  that  I  determined  to  walk  to 
Queensberry  House ;  to  prevent  any  person's  being  witness 
to  it,  should  it  happen.  I  accordingly  set  out  on  foot,  and 
was  not  totally  free  from  perturbation  when  I  knocked  at 
the  gate.  I  was,  however,  immediately  ushered  to  her 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.     87 

Grace's  apartment,  where  my  reception  was  as  singular  as 
my  treatment  had  been  the  day  before.  Her  Grace  thus 
accosted  me :  *  Well,  young  woman  !  What  business  had 
you  in  a.  chair  yesterday  ?  It  was  a  fine  morning,  and  you 
might  have  walked.  Yon  look  as  you  ought  to  do  now 
(observing  my  linen  gown).  Nothing  is  so  vulgar  as  wear- 
ing silk  in  a  morning.  Simplicity  best  becomes  youth.  And 
you  do  not  stand  in  need  of  ornaments.  Therefore  dies 
always  plain,  except  when  yon  are  upon  the  stage.' 

'*  Whilst  her  Grace  was  talking  in  this  manner  to  mef  die 
was  cleaning  a  picture,  which  I  officiously  requested  her 
permission  to  do ;  she  hastily  replied,  4  Don't  you  think  I 
have  domestics  enough  if  I  did  not  chose  to  do  it  myself?* 
I  apologized  for  my  presumption  by  informing  her  Grace 
that  I  had  been  for  some  time  at  Jones's,  where  I  had  been 
nattered  that  I  had  acquired  a  tolerable  proficiency  in  that 
art.  The  Duchess  upon  this  exclaimed,  'Are  you  the  girl 
I  have  heard  Chesterfield  speak  of?'  Upon  my  answering 
that  I  had  the  honor  of  being  known  to  his  Lordship,  she 
ordered  a  canvas  bag  to  be  taken  out  of  her  cabinet,  saying, 
'  No  person  can  give  Queensberry  less  than  gold.  There 
are  two  hundred  and  fifty  guineas,  and  twenty  for  the 
Duke's  tickets  and  mine ;  but  I  must  give  yon  something 
for  Trawler's  sake.1  She  then  took  a  bill  from  her  pocket- 
book,  which  having  put  into  my  hands,  she  told  me  her 
coach  was  ordered  to  carry  me  home,  lest  any  accident 
should  happen  to  me,  now  I  had  such  a  charge  about  me. 

"Though  the  conclusion  of  her  Grace's  whim,  as  it 
might  justly  be  termed,  was  more  pleasing  than  the  begin- 
ning of  it,  and  her  munificence  much  greater  than  that  of 
the  Countess  of  Cardigan,  yet  I  must  acknowledge  I  was 
much  better  pleased  with  the  reception  I  met  with  from 
her  Ladyship,  who  honored  me  with  her  protection  whilst 
I  continued  on  the  stage. 


88  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

"My  benefit  surpassed  my  most  sanguine  expectations. 
And  as  I  had  by  this  time  many  who  professed  themselves 
my  admirers,  they  had,  upon  this  occasion,  an  opportunity 
of  showing  their  generosity  without  offending  my  delicacy. 

"Among  those  who  paid  me  the  greatest  degree  of 
attention  was  Lord  Byron,  a  nobleman  who  had  little  to 
boast  of  but  a  title  and  an  agreeable  face ;  and  Mr.  Mont- 
gomery, since  Sir  George  Metham.  As  I  would  not  listen 
to  any  proposals  but  marriage  and  a  coach,*  Mr.  Mont- 
gomery honestly  told  me,  early  in  his  devoirs,  that  he 
could  not  comply  with  the  first,  as  his  only  dependence 
was  on  his  father,  whose  consent  he  could  not  hope  to 
procure ;  and  as  for  the  latter,  he  could  not  afford  it. 
Having  come  to  this  eclaircissement,  he  immediately  retired 
into  Yorkshire.  The  generous  conduct  of  this  gentleman 
(whose  passion  I  was  well  convinced  was  sincere)  in  not 
attempting  to  deceive  me,  made  an  impression  upon  my 
mind  greatly  in  his  favor. 

"Lord  Byron  still  pursued  me;  and  as  his  vanity  was 
hurt  at  my  rejecting  him,  he  formed  a  resolution  to  be 
revenged  of  me  for  my  insensibility.  His  Lordship  was 
very  intimate  with  a  person  who  was  a  disgrace  to  nobility  ; 
and  whose  name  I  shall  conceal  through  tenderness  to  his 
family.  This  nobleman  was  Lord  Byron's  confidential 
friend  ;  and  to  this  friend  Lord  Byron  committed  the 
execution  of  his  revenge. 

"  His  Lordship  frequently  called  at  Mrs.  Jackson's, 
though  much  against  my  mother's  inclinations.  But  as  he 
had  been  constantly  a  dangler  behind  the  scenes  during 
her  engagement  at  the  theatre,  and  had  occasionally  given 
her  franks,  she  admitted  his  visits.  My  mother  had  strictly 
enjoined  me  to  break  off  my  intimacy  with  the  young  lady 

*  The  reader  will  note  the  business-like  character  of  this  record. 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.      gg 

who  was  the  object  of  the  Earl's  pursuit,  on  account  of 
her  levity ;  and  because,  though  by  birth  a  gentlewoman, 
she  had  degraded  herself  by  becoming  the  companion  of  a 
lady  of  quality  who  had  frequently  eloped  from  her  lord. 

"My  mother  at  this  period  was  become  a  confirmed 
devotee.  Religion  engrossed  so  much  of  her  time,  that 
in  the  evening  she  was  seldom  visible.  Upon  this  account, 
and  from  Mrs.  Jackson's  accompanying  me  so  frequently 
to  Mr.  Quin's  suppers,  that  lady  conferred  a  great  part  of 
the  friendly  regard  she  had  once  borne  my  mother  to  me. 
But  alas '.  I  was  not  to  profit  long  by  this  revolution.  My 
happiness  was  to  be  as  transient  as  the  sunshine  of  an 
April  day. 

"One  Sunday  evening,  when  this  ignoble  Earl  well 
knew  my  mother  would  be  engaged,  he  called  to  inform 
me  that  the  young  lady  before  mentioned  was  in  a  coach 
at  the  end  of  Southampton  Street,  and  desired  to  speak 
with  me.  Without  staying  to  put  on  my  hat  or  gloves,  I 
ran  to  the  coach;  when,  to  my  unspeakable  surprise,  I 
found  myself  suddenly  hoisted  into  it  by  his  Lordship,  and 
that  the  coachman  drove  off  as  fast  as  the  horses  could 
gallop. 

"  My  astonishment  for  some  time  deprived  me  of  the 
power  of  utterance;  but  when  I  was  a  little  recovered.  I 
gave  free  vent  to  my  reproaches.  These  his  Lordship  bore 
with  a  truly  philosophic  indifference,  calmly  telling  me 
that  no  harm  was  intended  me  ;  and  that  I  had  better  con- 
sent to  make  his  friend  Lord  Byron  happy,  and  be  happy 
myself,  than  oppose  my  good  fortune.  To  this  he  added 
that  his  friend  was  shortly  to  be  married  to  Miss  Shaw,  a 
young  lady  possessed  of  a  very  large  fortune,  which  would 
enable  him  to  provide  handsomely  for  me.  I  was  so  struck 
with  the  insolence  of  this  proposal  that  I  remained  for 
some  time  quite  silent. 

8* 


go  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

"At  length  the  coach  stopped  in  a  lonely  place  at  the 
top  of  North  Audley  Street,  fronting  the  fields.  At  that 
time  Oxford  Street  did  not  extend  so  far  as  it  does  at  pres- 
ent. Here  the  Earl  got  out,  and  took  me  into  his  house. 
He  then  went  away,  as  he  said,  to  prepare  a  lodging  for 
me,  which  he  had  already  seen  at  a  mantua-maker's  in 
Broad  Street,  Carnaby  Market,  and  to  which  he  would 
come  back  and  take  me.  He  assured  me  the  mistress  of 
the  house  was  a  woman  of  character;  and  added,  with  the 
most  dreadful  imprecations,  that  no  violence  was  intended. 

"  His  Lordship  now  left  me.  And  as  the  fear  of  great 
evils  banishes  every  lesser  consideration,  I  determined  to 
wait  the  result  with  all  the  patience  I  was  possessed  of. 
The  dread  of  being  left  alone  in  that  solitary  place,  was 
nothing  when  compared  with  my  apprehensions  from  the 
machinations  of  two  noblemen  so  determined  and  so 
powerful.  Terror,  however,  so  totally  overwhelmed  my 
mind  that  I  remained  in  a  state  of  stupefaction. 

"  It  was  not  long  before  his  Lordship  returned ;  and 
with  him  came  the  person  I  least  expected  to  see — my  own 
brother.  Good  heavens  !  what  comfort,  at  so  critical  a 
juncture,  did  the  sight  of  him  afford  me  !  I  instantly  flew 
into  his  arms;  but  was  repulsed  by  him  in  so  violent  a 
manner  that  I  fell  to  the  ground.  The  shock  of  this  unex- 
pected repulse,  just  as  I  hoped  to  have  found  a  protector 
in  him,  was  more  than  my  spirits  were  able  to  bear.  It 
deprived  me  of  my  senses.  On  my  return  to  sensibility, 
the  only  object  that  presented  itself  to  my  view  was  an  old 
female  servant,  who  told  me  she  had  orders  to  convey  me 
to  the  lodging  which  had  been  prepared  for  me. 

"The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  make  inquiry  concerning 
my  brother's  coming  so  unexpectedly.  I  was  informed  by 
the  old  woman  that  he  had  bestowed  manual  chastisement 
upon  my  ravisher.  But  as  he  seemed  to  suppose  that  I  had 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  AXXE  BELLAMY. 


'I 


consented  to  the  elopement,  he  had  declared  he  would 
never  see  me  more,  but  leave  me  to  my  fate.  The  woman 
added  that  be  had  threatened  the  Earl  and  his  associate 
with  a  prosecution,  which  had  so  intimidated  her  master 
that  he  had  given  her  orders  to  remove  me  out  of  his  house 
as  soon  as  possible ;  as  my  being  found  there  might  make 
against  him. 

"  When  we  arrived  in  Broad  Street,  I  discovered,  to  my 
great  satisfaction,  that  the  mistress  of  the  house,  whose 
name  was  Mirvan,  worked  for  me  as  a  mantna-maker, 
though  I  was  till  now  unacquainted  with  her  place  of  resi- 
dence. I  told  her  my  story  simply  as  it  happened  :  and 
my  appearance,  as  well  as  my  eyes,  which  were  much 
swelled  with  crying,  was  an  undeniable  testimony  of  the 
truth  of  my  assertions. 

"  I  afterwards  learned  the  following  circumstances  rela- 
tive to  my  brother,  about  whom  I  was  more  anxious  than 
for  myself,  as  I  had  a  great  affection  for  him.  We  had 
long  expected  him  to  return  from  sea,  he  having  been 
abroad  for  some  years ;  and  by  one  of  those  extraordinary 
freaks  of  fortune  which  are  not  to  be  accounted  for,  he 
got  to  the  top  of  Southampton  Street  just  as  the  coach 
was  driving  off  with  me.  I  should  have  termed  his 
coming  providential,  had  he  not  suffered  his  suspicions  to 
get  the  better  of  his  affection,  and  thus  counteracted  the 
apparent  designs  of  Providence  in  affording  me  relief. 

"He  had  reached  Southampton  Street,  as  I  have  just 
said,  nearly  about  the  time  I  was  forced  into  the  coach ; 
and  ran  to  rescue  the  person  thus  treated,  little  imagining 
it  was  his  own  sister :  but  the  furious  driving  of  the  coach- 
man rendered  his  designs  abortive.  Upon  this  he  pro- 
ceeded to  Mrs.  Jackson's  house,  and  had  scarcely  inquired 
for  me,  than  that  lady  cried  out,  *  Oh  fly,  sir,  to  her  relief; 
Lord has  this  moment  run  away  with  her.'  My 


92  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

brother  hearing  this,  concluded  I  must  have  been  the  per- 
son he  had  just  seen  carried  off.  But  knowing  it  would 
be  impossible  to  overtake  the  coach,  he  thought  it  more 
prudent  to  go  directly  to  the  Earl's  house.  Not  finding 
him  at  home,  he  walked  about  within  sight  of  the  door,  till 
his  Lordship  returned,  when  he  accosted  him  in  the  man- 
ner before  related.  From  the  Earl  of 's,  my 

brother  went  to  Marlborough  Street  to  Lord  Byron's;  and 
accusing  him  of  being  concerned  with  the  Earl  in  seducing 
his  sister,  his  Lordship  denied  having  any  knowledge  of  the 
affair,  which  he  solemnly  asserted  upon  his  honor ;  declar- 
ing at  the  same  time,  as  indeed  he  could  do  with  a  greater 
degree  of  truth,  that  he  had  not  seen  me  that  evening. 

"  My  brother,  placing  an  implicit  confidence  in  the  as- 
sertions of  Lord  Byron,  grew  enraged  against  me,  without 
making  any  inquiries  whether  I  was  really  culpable  upon 
this  occasion  or  not.  Giving  me  over,  therefore,  as  a  lost 
abandoned  girl,  he  immediately  set  out  for  Portsmouth, 
and  left  me  unprotected.  This  I  may  justly  consider  as 
the  most  unfortunate  event  I  had  hitherto  experienced ; 
for,  being  deprived  of  his  protection  at  a  time  when  it  was 
so  extremely  requisite  to  my  re-establishment  in  life,  I  was 
left  open  to  the  attacks  of  every  insolent  pretender,  whose 
audacity  his  very  character,  as  he  was  distinguished  for  his 
bravery,  would  have  repressed." 

III. 

After  the  scandal  of  this  episode  had  subsided,  the  hero- 
ine accepted  an  engagement  at  Dublin ;  and  the  picture 
of  life  and  stage  manners  then  presented  is  highly  charac- 
teristic. The  brutality  of  the  fashionable  gentlemen  of 
the  day  is  unpleasantly  conspicuous  : — 

"As  soon  as  I  was  recovered  from  the  fatigue  of  my 
journey,  I  went  to  pay  my  respects  to  Mrs.  O'Hara,  Lord 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANXE  BELLAMY. 


93 


Tyrawley's  sister,  who  had  not  seen  me  since  I  was  an 
infant.  To  my  great  grief  I  found  her  blind.  She  was 
much  pleased  with  my  visit,  bat  she  did  not  greatly  ap- 
prove of  the  profession  I  had  chosen.  However,  as  I 
went  by  the  name  of  my  mother's  husband,  to  which  alone 
I  had  a  right,  being  born  after  their  marriage,  my  engage- 
•  ment  in  the  theatrical  line  could  not  bring  public  disgrace 
on  her  family.  She,  notwithstanding,  proposed  herself  to 
introduce  me  to  all  her  acquaintance  as  hfr  nifce ;  which 
she  accordingly  did,  as  the  acknowledged  daughter  of 
Lord  Tyrawley. 

"Mrs.  O'Hara  kindly  inquired  into  the  state  of  my 
finances,  which  gave  me  an  opportunity  of  making  her 
acquainted  with  the  Duchess  of  Queensberry's  liberal  ity 
to  me,  and  likewise  with  the  mortification  I  had  received 
from  her  Grace  at  the  same  time ;  with  which  she  seemed 
much  entertained.  I  even  informed  her  of  the  event  which 
had  been  the  cause  of  so  much  unhappiness  to  me.  It  is 
an  established  maxim  with  me,  never  to  rest  satisfied  with 
gaining  the  good  opinion  of  any  person  by  halves.  In 
the  afternoon  the  honorable  Mrs.  Butler  and  her  daugh- 
ter were  announced.  Mrs.  O'Hara  introduced  me  as  her 
niece,  and  added  an  euloginm  which  I  by  no  means  mer- 
ited ;  and  as  this  lady  was  a  leading  woman  in  the  fash- 
ionable world,  had  great  interest,  and  her  house  was 
frequented  by  most  of  the  nobility,  Mrs.  O'Hara  solicited 
her  protection  for  me.  Mrs.  Butler  was  elegant  in  her 
figure,  and  had  been  very  pretty,  of  which  there  were  still 
some  remains ;  but  the  decay  of  her  beauty  appeared  to 
be  more  the  result  of  indisposition  than  age.  Her  daugh- 
ter was  handsome,  spirited,  sensible,  and  good-humored. 
She  was  nearly  of  the  same  age  with  myself,  and  seemed, 
even  at  this  first  interview,  to  have  contracted  a  partiality 
for  me,  which  I  reciprocally  wished  to  cultivate.  Before 


94 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


the  ladies  took  their  leave,  they  engaged  my  aunt  and  me 
to  come  the  next  day  to  Stephen's  Green  to  dine  and 
spend  the  evening. 

"  When  I  returned  home,  I  found  our  fellow-traveler, 
Mr.  Crump,  tete-d-tete  with  my  mother.  She  informed  me 
that  Miss  St.  Ledger,  one  of  the  three  ladies  I  had  become 
acquainted  with  some  years  before  at  Mrs.  Jones's,  had 
called  and  requested  to  see  me  the  next  morning,  at  Lady 
Doneraile's,  in  Dawson  Street.  Thus,  from  having  no 
female  acquaintance  in  London,  except  my  own  family,  I 
was  now  en  train  to  be  introduced  into  the  first  circle  in 
Dublin.  The  next  morning  I  went  to  breakfast  with  Miss 
St.  Ledger,  by  whom  I  was  received  with  all  that  polite- 
ness she  so  eminently  possessed,  actuated  by  the  cordial 
warmth  usually  felt  by  the  susceptible  on  embracing  a  loved 
intimate  after  a  long  absence.  She  inquired  in  the  kindest 
manner  after  Miss  Conway ;  and  was  much  affected  at 
hearing  that  her  friend  was  in  a  declining  state  of  health, 
occasioned  by  her  constant  attendance  on  the  Princess  of 
Wales,  to  whom  she  was  a  Maid  of  Honor,  which  prevented 
her  from  taking  the  necessary  steps  for  her  recovery.  She 
pressed  me  to  stay  to  dinner,  but  when  I  informed  her  that 
I  was  pre-engaged,  and  told  her  by  whom,  she  politely  said 
she  was  then  happy,  even  in  being  deprived  of  my  com- 
pany ;  as  the  acquaintance  of  Mrs.  J5utler  was  the  most 
desirable  of  any  in  Dublin,  and  would  prove  most  agree- 
able and  beneficial  to  me.  She  at  the  same  time  much 
regretted  that  she  was  deprived  of  the  pleasure  of  frequent- 
ing that  lady's  house,  which  was  occasioned  by  some 
umbrage  her  aunt,  Lady  Doneraile,  with  whom  she  resided, 
had  given  her. 

"My  reception  at  the  Green,  when  I  went  to  "dinner, 
was  of  the  most  flattering  kind.  It  exceeded  even  my 
warmest  hopes ;  and  Mrs.  Butler  avowed  herself  my  pa- 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY      95 

troness,  notwithstanding  she  had  not  yet  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  acquiring  a  knowledge  whether  I  really  deserved 
that  honor.  When  I  took  leave,  she  obligingly  requested 
that  I  would  pass  every  hour,  not  appropriated  to  the 
business  of  the  theatre,  at  her  house;  which  you  may  be 
assured  I  did  not  fail  readily  to  promise. 

"The  theatre  opened  with  eclat.  And  what  was  very 
fortunate  for  me,  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield  was  at  that  time 
Viceroy.  Mr.  Barry  had  made  some  figure  on  this  stage 
the  preceding  winter,  in  the  character  of  Othello;  and 
upon  my  being  engaged,  the  manager  wrote  to  him  to 
study  that  of  Castalio,  as  he  proposed  I  should  early  appear 
in  'The  Orphan.'  To  add  to  our  success,  Mr.  Garrick 
joined  the  company  this  season.  Having  some  dispute 
with  the  proprietor  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre,  and  Mr.  Rich 
declining  to  give  him  the  terms  he  required,  he  came  to 
Dublin.  Three  such  capital  performers  as  Garrick,  Sheri- 
dan, and  Barry,  in  one  company,  was  a  circumstance  that 
had  scarcely  ever  happened.  I  was  obliged  to  appear 
almost  every  night;  and  sometimes  in  characters  very  unfit 
for  me.  The  great  applause  that  I  received,  however, 
spurred  me  on,  and  excited  in  me  the  strongest  endeavors 
to  deserve  it.  And  that  I  might  at  once  pay  a  proper 
attention  to  the  duties  of  my  profession,  and  have  time  to 
enjoy  the  society  of  my  new  friends,  I  scarcely  allowed 
myself  even  that  portion  of  rest  which  nature  requires.  A 
good  constitution,  however,  and  inexhaustible  spirits, 
enabled  me  to  go  through  the  season. 

"After  some  time,  the  tragedy  of  ' King  John'  was  pro- 
posed, wherein  Roscius  and  the  manager  were  to  appear 
together,  and  play  alternately  the  King  and  the  Bastard. 
Upon  this  occasion  Mr.  Sheridan  insisted  on  my  playing 
Constance;  whilst  Mr.  Garrick  objected  to  it,  as  there 
would  then  be  no  person  to  play  Prince  Arthur,  but  the 


96  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

late  Mrs.  Kennedy,  at  that  time  Miss  Orpheur,  who  was 
nearly  of  the  same  age  as  myself,  and  from  being  hard- 
favored  looked  much  older. 

"Upon  Mr.  Garrick's  absolute  rejection  of  my  appear- 
ance in  the  character  on  which  I  had  set  my  heart,  and  for 
the  performance  of  which  I  had  stipulated  in  my  articles, 
I  flew  to  my  patroness,  Mrs.  Butler,  to  complain  of  the 
breach  of  them.  Notwithstanding  her  partiality  for  Mr. 
Garrick,  so  highly  did  I  stand  in  her  favor,  that  she  imme- 
diately sent  round  to  all  her  friends,  to  request  they  would 
not  go  to  the  play  the  evening  it  was  performed.  Besides 
the  consequence  of  family  and  fortune,  this  lady  possessed 
very  great  power  in  the  genteel  world.  To  this  may  be 
added,  that  as  she  frequently  gave  balls,  all  the  young  ladies 
that  were  usually  invited  were  always  ready  to  oblige  her 
in  any  request  of  this  nature,  to  insure  themselves  a  place 
at  those  entertainments.  And  every  one  of  these  readily 
obeyed,  and  spread  abroad  her  injunctions.  The  house,  on 
the  night  '  King  John'  was  performed  for  the  first  time,  was, 
of  course,  very  thin.  The  receipts  did  not  amount  to  forty 
pounds. 

"This  was  the  first  theatrical  humiliation  the  immortal 
Roscius  ever  met  with  ;  and  he  severely  repented  preferring 
Mrs.  Furnival,  who  played  the  character  of  Constance,  to 
my  little  self.  But  what  completed-  my  triumph  was,  that 
when  the  same  play  was  again  performed,  and  Mr.  Sheridan 
played  the  King,  Garrick  the  Bastard,  and  myself  Con- 
stance, more  people  were  turned  away  than  could  get 
places;  and  the  dispute  relative  to  the  characters  which 
had  lately  happened  made  the  audience  receive  me  with 
the  warmest  marks  of  approbation. 

But  notwithstanding  this  success,  I  was  determined  to 
return  the  mortification  Mr.  Garrick  had  been  the  cause 
of  to  me,  the  very  first  opportunity  that  presented  itself; 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.      97 

and  it  was  not  long  before  one  offered.  This  LITTLE  great 
man  was  to  have  two  benefits  during  the  season ;  and,  that 
they  might  not  come  too  near  each  other,  it  was  agreed 
that  he  should  have  one  of  them  early  in  it.  He  had  fixed 
on  'Jane  Shore'  for  his  first  benefit;  and  on  application 
being  made  to  me  to  perform  that  character,  I  absolutely 
refused  it,  alleging  the  objection  he  had  made  to  my  play- 
ing Constance,  namely,  my  youth.  Finding  that  entreaties 
were  ineffectual,  he  prevailed  on  Mrs.  Butler  to  make  use 
of  her  interest  with  me ;  sensible  that  I  could  not  refuse 
the  solicitations  of  a.lady  to  whom  I  was  bound,  not  only 
by  the  ties  of  gratitude,  but  those  of  policy.  And  whilst 
he  made  this  application,  that  he  might  leave  no  method 
of  obtaining  my  consent  untried,  he  wrote  me  a  note  at 
the  same  time,  which  occasioned  the  following  laughable 
incident,  and  furnished  conversation  for  the  whole  city  of 
Dublin. 

"  In  his  note  he  informed  me,  'that  if  I  would  oblige 
him,  he  would  write  me  a  goody-goody  epilogue;  which, 
with  the  help  of  my  eyes,  should  do  more  mischief  than 
ever  the  flesh  or  the  devil  had  done  since  the  world  began.' 
This  ridiculous  epistle  he  directed  'To  my  soul's  idol,  the 
beautified  Ophelia;'  and  delivered  it  to  his  servant,  with 
orders  to  bring  it  to  me.  But  the  fellow  having  some  more 
agreeable  amusement  to  pursue  than  going  on  his  master's 
errands,  he  gave  it  to  a  porter  in  the  street  without  having 
attended  to  the  curious  direction  that  was  on  it.  The 
porter,  upon  reading  the  superscription,  and  not  knowing 
throughout  the  whole  city  of  Dublin  any  lady  of  quality 
who  bore  the  title  either  of  'My  Soul's  Idol,'  or  'The  beau- 
tified Ophelia,'  naturally  concluded  that  it  was  intended  to 
answer  some  jocular  purpose.  He  accordingly  carried  it  to 
his  master,  who  happened  to  be  a  newsman  ;  and  by  his 
means  it  got  the  next  day  into  the  public  prints.  The 
E  9 


98  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

inditer  of  this  high-flown  epistle,  it  must  be  supposed,  was 
not  a  little  mortified  at  its  publication.  Nor  was  my  mother, 
who  was  always  awake  for  my  reputation,  without  her  alarms, 
lest  it  should  injure  my  character;  but  that,  thank  Heaven, 
was  too  well  established  to  be  endangered  by  so  ridiculous 
an  accident. 

"  After  a  reconciliation  between  Mr.  Garrick  and  myself 
had  been  effected,  he  visited  much  oftener  at  Colonel  But- 
ler's than  usual.  The  Colonel  had  a  seat  on  the  sea-coast, 
not  many  miles  from  Dublin  ;  and  my  mother  thinking 
that  bathing  in  the  sea  would  be  of  great  benefit  to  my 
health,  she  took  a  furnished  house  at  the  Sheds  of  Clontarf 
for  that  purpose.  She  fixed  on  this  spot,  that  I  might  at 
the  same  time  be  near  my  much-loved  companion,  Miss 
Butler ;  between  whom  and  myself  as  inseparable  a  con- 
nection had  taken  place  as  if  it  had  been  cemented  by  the 
ties  of  blood. 

"At  the  conclusion  of  the  season,  Mr.  Garrick  prepared 
to  return  to  England  with  the  rich  harvest  that  had  crowned 
his  toils.  Mrs.  Butler,  who  had  a  taste  for  wit,  was  as- fond 
of  his  company  as  her  amiable  daughter  was  of  mine.  Some 
days  before  Mr.  Garrick's  departure  for  England,  as  Mrs. 
Butler,  her  daughter,  myself,  and  some  other  company, 
were  walking  on  the  terrace,  we  had  the  satisfaction  to  see 
the  much-admired  hero  come  gallopjng  up  to  the  house. 
He  soon  joined  us  ;  and  to  the  great  regret  of  us  all,  par- 
ticularly Mrs.  Butler,  announced  his  intention  of  leaving 
Dublin  the  next  day.  Whilst  we  were  engaged  in  conver- 
sation, the  lady  of  the  house  went  away  abruptly ;  but  soon 
returned,  bearing  in  her  hand  a  sealed  packet,  which  she 
delivered  to  Roscius,  thus  addressing  him  at  the  same  time: 
— '  I  here  present  you,  Mr.  Garrick,  with  something  more 
valuable  than  life.  In  it  you  will  read  my  sentiments;  but 
I  strictly  enjoin  you  not  to  open  it  till  you  have  passed  the 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.     99 

Hfll  of  Howth.'  We  all  looked  surprised  at  this  extraor- 
dinary presentation,  especially  Colonel  Butler's  chaplain, 
who  was  one  of  the  party.  As  the  lady  inclined  somewhat 
to  prudery,  and  had  always  appeared  to  be  governed  by  the 
most  rigid  rules  of  virtue,  we  could  none  of  us  guess  the 
purport  of  the  present,  though  her  conduct  seemed  to  ad- 
mit of  a  doubtful  interpretation.  But  Garrick,  who  was  as 
conscious  of  possessing  nature's  liberal  gifts  as  any  man 
breathing,  took  the  packet  with  a  significant  graceful  air  ; 
concluding,  without  hesitation,  that  it  contained  not  only 
a  valuable  present  (the  giver  having  the  power  as  well  as 
the  disposition  to  be  generous),  but  a  declaration  of  such 
tender  sentiments  as  her  virtue  would  not  permit  her  to 
make  known  to  him  whilst  he  remained  in  the  kingdom. 

"  After  dinner  Mr.  Garrick  took  his  leave,  and  he  was 
no  sooner  departed,  than  Mrs.  Butler  informed  the  com- 
pany that  the  contents  of  the  valuable  packet  with  which 
she  had  presented  her  visitor,  were  nothing  more  than 
'Wesley's  Hymns,'  and  'Dean  Swift's  Discourse  on  the 
Trinity';  adding  that  he  would  have  leisure  during  his 
voyage  to  study  the  one  and  to  digest  the  other.  You  may 
be  assured  that  we  all  enjoyed  the  joke.  As  for  my  own 
part,  I  could  scarcely  keep  my  risible  faculties  in  any 
order,  when  my  imagination  presented  to  me  Garrick's 
disappointment  at  finding  the  contents  of  the  packet  so 
very  different  from  what  he  had  concluded  them  to  be.  I 
must  inform  you  that  at  our  next  meeting  Kir.  Garrick 
acquainted  me,  that  upon  opening  the  packet,  and  seeing 
what  it  contained,  he  was  so  much  chagrined,  that  he,  in 
the  most  heathenish  manner,  offered  them  up  a  sacrifice  to 
Neptune.  In  plain  English,  he  threw  both  Mr.  Wesley 
and  the  Dean,  cheek-by-jowl,  into  the  sea.  .  .  . 

"Early  in  the  season  (1746)  the  tragedy  of  'All  for 
Love,  or  The  World  Well  Lost,'  was  revived ;  in  which 


ioo  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  SILAGE. 

Barry  and  Sheridan  stood  unrivaled  in  the  characters  of 
Antony  and  Ventidius.  The  getting  it  up  produced  the 
following  extraordinary  incidents.  The  manager,  in  an 
excursion  he  had  made  during  the  summer  to  London,  had 
purchased  a  superb  suit  of  clothes  that  had  belonged  to  the 
Princess  of  Wales,  and  had  been  only  worn  by  her  on  the 
birth-day.  This  was  made  into  a  dress  for  me  to  play 
the  character  of  Cleopatra ;  and  as  the  ground  of  it  was 
silver  tissue,  my  mother  thought  that  by  turning  the  body 
of  it  in,  it  would  be  a  no  unbecoming  addition  to  my 
waist,  which  was  remarkably  small.  My  maid-servant  was 
accordingly  sent  to  the  theatre  to  assist  the  dresser  and 
mantua-maker  in  preparing  it ;  and  also  in  sewing  on  a 
number  of  diamonds,  my  patroness  not  only  having  fur- 
nished me  with  her  own,  but  borrowed  several  others  of  her 
acquaintance  for  me.  When  the  women  had  finished  the 
work,  they  all  went  out  of  the  room,  and  left  the  door  of 
it  indiscreetly  open. 

"  Mrs.  Furnival  (who  owed  me  a  grudge  on  account  of 
my  eclipsing  her,  as  the  more  favorable  reception  I  met 
with  from  the  public  gave  her  room  to  conclude  I  did ; 
and  likewise  for  the  stir  which  had  been  made  last  season 
about  the  character  of  Constance)  accidentally  passed  by 
the  door  of  my  dressing-room,  in  the  way  to  her  own,  as  it 
stood  open.  Seeing  my  rich  dress  thus  lying  exposed,  and 
observing  no  person  by  to  prevent  her,  she  stepped  in  and 
carried  off  the  Queen  of  Egypt's  paraphernalia,  to  adorn 
herself  in  the  character  of  Octavia,  the  Roman  matron, 
which  she  was  to  perform.  By  remarking  from  time  to 
time  my  dress,  which  was  very  different  from  the  generality 
of  heroines,  Mrs.  Furnival  had  just  acquired  taste  enough 
to  despise  the  black  velvet  in  which  those  ladies  were 
usually  habited.  And  without  considering  the  impropriety 
of  enrobing  a  Roman  matron  in  the  habiliments  of  the 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    IQI 

Egyptian  Queen,  or  perhaps  not  knowing  that  there  was 
any  impropriety  in  it,  she  determined,  for  once  in  her  life- 
time, to  be  as  fine  as  myself,  and  that  at  my  expense ;  she 
accordingly  set  to  work  to  let  out  the  clothes  which,  through 
my  mother's  economical  advice,  had  been  taken  in. 

"  When  my  servant  returned  to  the  room,  and  found 
the  valuable  dress  that  had  been  committed  to  her  charge 
missing,  her  fright  and  agitation  were  beyond  expression. 
She  ran  like  a  mad  creature  about  the  theatre,  inquiring 
of  every  one  whether  they  had  seen  anything  of  it.  At 
length  she  was  informed  that  Mrs.  Furnival  had  got  pos- 
session of  it :  when,  running  to  that  lady's  dressing-room, 
she  was  nearly  petrified  at  beholding  the  work  which  had 
cost  her  so  much  pains  undone.  My  damsel's  veins,  un- 
fortunately for  Mrs.  Furnival,  were  rich  with  the  blood  of 
the  O'Bryens.  Thus  qualified,  she  at  first  demanded  the 
dress  with  tolerable  civility ;  but  meeting  with  a  peremp- 
tory refusal,  the  blood  of  her  great  forefathers  boiled  within 
her  veins,  and  without  any  more  ado,  she  fell  tooth  and 
nail  upon  poor  Mrs.  Furnival.  So  violent  was  the  assault, 
that  had  not  assistance  arrived  in  time  to  rescue  her  from 
the  fangs  of  the  enraged  Hibernian  nymph,  my  theatrical 
rival  would  probably  have  never  had  an  opportunity  of 
appearing  once  in  her  life  adorned  with  real  jewels. 

"  When  I  came  to  the  theatre,  I  found  my  servant  dis- 
solved in  tears  at  the  sad  disaster,  for,  notwithstanding  her 
heroic  exertions,  she  had  not  been  able  to  bring  off  the 
cause  of  the  contest.  But  so  far  was  I  from  partaking  of 
her  grief,  that  I  could  not  help  being  highly  diverted  at  the 
absurdity  of  the  incident.  Nothing  concerning  a  theatre 
could  at  that  time  affect  my  temper,  except  the  disappoint- 
ment I  had  met  with  in  not  appearing  in  the  part  of  Con- 
stance, as  before  related.  I  sent,  indeed,  for  the  jewel?, 
but  the  lady,  rendered  courageous  by  Nantz,  and  the  pres- 
9* 


102  1HE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

ence  of  her  paramour  Morgan,  who  was  not  yet  dead,  con- 
descended to  send  me  word  that  I  should  have  them  after 
the  play. 

"  In  this  situation  I  had  no  other  resource  than  to  reverse 
the  dresses,  and  appear  as  plain  in  the  character  of  the  lux- 
urious Queen  of  Egypt  as  Antony's  good  wife,  although 
the  sister  of  Caesar,  ought  to  have  been.  In  the  room  of 
precious  stones,  with  which  my  dress  should  have  been  dec- 
orated, I  substituted  pearls,  and  of  all  my  finery  I  retained 
only  my  diadem,  that  indispensable  mark  of  royalty. 

"  Every  transaction  that  takes  place  in  the  theatre,  and 
every  circumstance  relative  to  it,  are  as  well  known  in 
Dublin  as  they  would  be  in  a  country  town.  The  report 
of  the  richness  and  elegance  of  my  dress  had  been  univer- 
sally the  subject  of  conversation  for  some  time  before  the 
night  of  performance,  when,  to  the  surprise  of  the  audi- 
ence, I  appeared  in  white  satin.  My  kind  patroness,  who 
sat  in  the  stage-box,  seemed  not  to  be  able  to  account  for 
such  an  unexpected  circumstance.  And  not  seeing  me 
adorned  with  the  jewels  she  had  lent'  me,  she  naturally 
supposed  I  had  reserved  my  regalia  till  the  scene  in  which 
I  was  to  meet  my  Antony. 

"When  I  had  first  entered  the  green-room,  the  manager, 
who  expected  to  see  me  splendidly  dressed,  as  it  was  natu- 
ral to  suppose  the  enchanting  Cleopatra  would  have  been 
upon  such  an  occasion,  expressed  with  some  warmth  his 
surprise  at  a  disappointment,  which  he  could  only  impute 
to  caprice.  Without  being  in  the  least  discomposed  by  his 
warmth,  I  coolly  told  him,  'that  I  had  taken  the  advice 
Ventidius  had  sent  me  by  Alexis,  and  had  parted  with  both 
my  clothes  and  jewels  to  Antony's  wife.'  Mr.  Sheridan 
could  not  conceive  my  meaning ;  but  as  it  was  now  too 
late  to  make  any  alteration,  he  said  no  more  upon  the  sub- 
ject. He  was  not,  however,  long  at  a  loss  for  an  explana- 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    IO3 

tion ;  for,  going  to  introduce  Octavia  to  the  Emperor,  he 
discovered  the  jay  in  all  her  borrowed  plumes.  An  ap- 
parition could  not  have  more  astonished  him.  He  was  so 
confounded,  that  it  was  some  time  before  he  could  go  on 
with  his  part.  At  the  same  instant  Mrs.  Butler  exclaimed 
aloud,  'Good  Heaven,  thewoman  has  got  on  mydiamonds !' 
The  gentlemen  in  the  pit  concluded  that  Mrs.  Butler  had 
been  robbed  of  them  by  Mrs.  Furnival ;  and  the  general 
consternation  occasioned  by  so  extraordinary  a  scene  is  not 
to  be  described.*  But  the  audience  observing  Mr.  Sheridan 
to  smile,  they  supposed  there  was  some  mystery  in  the  affair, 
which  induced  them  to  wait  with  patience  till  the  conclu- 
sion of  the  act.  As  soon  as  it  was  finished  they  bestowed 
their  applause  upon  Antony  and  his  faithful  veteran ;  but, 
as  if  they  had  all  been  animated  by  the  same  mind,  they 
cried  out,  '  No  more  Furnival !  No  more  Furnival !'  The 
fine-dressed  lady,  disappointed  of  the  acclamations  she  ex- 
pected to  receive  on  account  of  the  grandeur  of  her  habili- 
ments, and  thus  hooted  for  the  impropriety  of  her  conduct, 
very  prudently  called  fits  to  her  aid,  which  incapacitated 
her  from  appearing  again,  and  the  audience  had  the  good- 
nature to  wait  patiently  till  Mrs.  Elmy,  whom  curiosity  had 
led  to  the  theatre,  had  dressed  to  finish  the  part.  But  the 
next  night,  either  inspired  with  the  brilliancy  of  my  orna- 
ments, or  animated  by  the  sight  of  his  Excellency  Lord 
Chesterfield,  who,  together  with  his  Lady,  graced  the 
theatre,  it  was  the  general  opinion  that  I  never  played  with 
so  much  spirit,  or  did  greater  justice  to  a  character.  The 
applause  I  received  was  universal. 

"  A  gentleman  who  stood  near  the  stage  door,  took  a 
very  unallowable   method   of   showing   his   approbation. 

*  Remarks  of  this  kind  from  the  audience  were  part  of  the  theatrical 
license  of  the  time.    The  whole  is  a  most  curious  picture. 


104  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

Being  a  little  flushed  with  liquor,  or  otherwise  I  am  per- 
suaded he  could  not  have  been  capable  of  the  rudeness,  he 
put  his  lips  to  the  back  of  my  neck  as  I  passed  him.  Justly 
enraged  at  so  great  an  insult,  and  not  considering  that  the 
Lord  Lieutenant  was  present,  or  that  it  v/as  committed 
before  such  a  number  of  spectators,  I  instantly  turned 
about,  and  gave  the  gentleman  a  slap  on  the  face.  Violent 
and  unbecoming  as  this  sudden  token  of  resentment  ap- 
peared, it  received  the  approbation  of  Lord  Chesterfield, 
who  rose  from  his  seat  and  applauded  me  for  some  time 
with  his  hands ;  the  whole  audience,  as  you  may  suppose, 
following  his  example.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  act  Major 
Macartney  came,  by  order  of  his  Excellency,  to  Mr.  St. 
Leger  (that  was  the  gentleman's  name),  requesting  that  he 
would  make  a  public  apology  for  this  forgetfulness  of 
decorum ;  which  he  accordingly  did.  I  have  reason  to 
believe  that  this  incident  contributed,  in  a  great  measure, 
to  a  reform  that  Mr.  Sheridan,  with  great  propriety,  soon 
after  made.  Agreeable  to  this  regulation,  no  gentlemen, 
in  future,  were  to  be  admitted  behind  the  scenes.  .  .  . 

"  Not  long  after  as  I  was  performing  the  part  of  Lady 
Townley,  in  'The  Provoked  Husband,'  I  received  a  card 
from  Mrs.  Butler,  wrote  in  a  servant's  hand,  requesting  me 
to  come  to  her  house  as  soon  as  I  should  be  at  liberty.  As 
the  note  was  delivered  to  me  during. the  performance  of 
the  play  I  had  only  leisure  just  to  send  verbally,  with  my 
compliments,  that  the  fatigue  of  the  evening  would  prevent 
me  from  being  able  to  do  myself  that  honor. 

"  Had  I  attended  to  the  circumstance  of  the  card  being 
written  by  a  servant,  I  must  have  been  convinced  that 
something  was  wrong ;  as  my  dear  friend  Miss  Butler  was 
always  happy  in  seizing  every  occasion  to  write  to  me.  It, 
however,  passed  unnoticed.  Not  long  after,  I  received 
another  note,  informing  me  that  I  must  absolutely  come 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  AKNE  BELLAMY.    105 

the  moment  I  had  finished,  and  even  without  waiting  to 
change  my  dress.  So  very  pressing  an  invitation  I  own 
excited  my  curiosity,  and  made  me  impatient  for  the 
conclusion  of  my  business. 

"  My  task  being  done,  I  got  into  my  chair  in  the  same 
dress  in  which  I  had  played  the  character  of  Lady  Town- 
ley,  and  hastened  away  to  Stephen's  Green.  As  the  dress 
I  wore  was  a  modern  one,  there  was  no  great  impropriety 
in  my  appearing  with  it  off  the  stage.  Just  as  I  entered 
one  door  of  the  parlor  in  which  Mrs.  Butler  and  her  female 
visitors  were,  the  Colonel,  and  several  gentlemen,  who  had 
just  risen  from  their  bottle,  were  ushered  in  at  the  opposite 
one.  The  company  was  numerous ;  and  the  elegance  of 
my  dress  attracted  the  attention  of  all  the  gentlemen; 
but  not  one  of  the  ladies  condescended  to  speak  to  me. 
Even  the  lady  whose  guest  I  was  only  deigned  to  welcome 
me,  on  my  entrance,  with  a  formal  declination  of  her 


"  A  reception  so  different  from  what  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  in  that  hospitable  mansion,  not  only  surprised, 
but  greatly  shocked  me.  In  this  agitation  of  mind,  I 
made  up  to  Mrs.  O'Hara,  who  was  present,  ahd  requested 
she  would  inform  me  what  was  the  occasion  of  it.  The 
answer  I  received  from  her  was  that  a  few  minutes  would 
determine  whether  she  should  ever  notice  me  again. 

"A  gentleman  now  made  his  aOree,  whose  figure — 
tjgj[rr\  dress,  and  address  exceeded  everything  I  had  ever 
beheld  before.  The  ladies,  notwithstanding,  continued  to 
look  as  serious  and  demure  as  a  convocation  of  old  maids 
met  on  purpose  to  dissect  the  reputation  of  a  giddy, 
thoughtless  young  one.  Nor  did  this  beautiful  stranger, 
with  all  his  attractions,  seem  to  be  less  neglected  than 
myself.  From  being  in  such  company,  and  in  such  a 
splendid  dress,  for  my  head  was  adorned  with  the  jewels 
E* 


lo6  THE  RQMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

of  my  patroness,  the  gentleman  might  naturally  conclude 
that  I  was  a  person  of  quality. 

"From  this  motive,  or  some  other,  his  attention  ap- 
peared to  be  fixed  on  me,  in  preference  to  any  of  the  other 
ladies;  and  he  introduced  himself  to  me  with  an  air  so 
easy  and  confident,  that  I  knew  immediately  that  he  had 
traveled.  He  acquainted  me  that  he  was  just  returned 
from  making  the  grand  tour,  and  was  come  to  take  pos- 
session "of  his  estate,  and  settle  for  the  remainder  of  his 
days  in  Ireland.  We  then  entered  into  conversation  on 
different  subjects,  in  which  I  acquitted  myself  with  more 
ease  than  I  expected  I  could  have  done  in  a  state  of  such 
suspense. 

"  The  test  intended  for  the  discovery  of  some  dubious 
points,  which  will  presently  be  known,  having  now  been 
carried  on  as  long  as  necessary,  Miss  Butler  was  sent  to 
put  a  stop  to  our  tete-a-tete,  when  my  Ganymede,  whose 
curiosity  had  been  on  tiptoe  to  find  out  who  I  was,  went 
.to  the  upper  end  of  the  room  to  make  the  needful  inquiries 
of  the  lady  of  the  house.  Having  in  a  whisper  asked  the 
question,  Mrs.  Butler  answered  aloud,  'Surely  you  must 
know  her.  1  am  certain  you  know  her ;  nay,  that  you  are 
well  acquainted  with  her.'  The  gentleman,  not  a  little 
disconcerted  at  this  want,  in  a  lady  of  fashion,  of  what  is 
usually  termed  au  monde,  that  is,  among  other  things,  re- 
plying to  a  whisper  in  an  audible  voice ;  assuring  her,  still 
in  a  low  tone,  that  he  had  never  seen  me  before,  and  now 
felt  himself  greatly  interested  in  the  inquiry.  '  Fie,  fie, 
Mr.  Medlicote,'  returned  my  patroness,  'what  can  you  say 
for  yourself,  when  I  inform  you,  that  this  is  the  dear  girl 
whose  character  you  so  cruelly  aspersed  at  dinner?1 

"  I  now  plainly  perceived,  that  this  accomplished  gen- 
tleman, vain  of  his  attractive  graces,  had  boasted,  like  too 
many  others,  of  favors  he  had  never  received,  not  knowing 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY. 


107 


that  he  did  so  in  the  presence  of  my  best  friends,  and  that 
there  was  a  certainty  of  his  false  assertions  being  detected. 
The  pencil  of  Hogarth  alone  could  justly  depicture  the 
confusion  of  the  gentleman  at  this  discovery  of  his  treach- 
ery ;  or  of  my  petrifaction  at  finding  myself  the  subject 
of  his  slander.  It  for  some  time  totally  deprived  me  of 
the  use  of  every  faculty.  Till  at  length  my  patroness 
kindly  relieved  me  from  the  situation  in  which  I  was  ab- 
sorbed. Coming  up  to  me,  she  took  me  by  the  hand,  and 
with  a  smile  on  her  countenance  thus  addressed  me :  '  My 
dear  child,  you  have  gone  through  a  fiery  trial ;  but  it  was 
a  very  necessary  one.  This  gentleman  has  vilely  traduced 
your  character.  We  were  all  perfectly  convinced  that  you 
did  not  merit  what  he  said  of  you  ;  but  had  he  seen  you 
first  at  the  theatre  instead  of  here,  he  would,  doubtlessly, 
have  maintained  his  assertions  with  oaths,  and  there  would 
then  have  been  no  possibility  of  contradicting  him,  how- 
ever favorably  we  may  have  thought  of  you,  notwithstand- 
ing.' Having  said  this,  she  embraced  me  in  the  most 
cordial  manner.  And  as  soon  as  I  got  from  her  embrace, 
I  ran  and  threw  myself  into  the  arms  of  my  dear  aunt,  who 
seemed  to  feel  the  utmost  satisfaction  at  my  triumph. 

"As  for  my  traducer,  it  may  be  supposed  he  did  not 
long  disgust  us  with  his  company.  Charming  and  accom- 
plished as  he  was,  there  did  not  appear  to  be  a  wish  among 
us  all  to  detain  him. 

"  In  the  morning,  after  a  restless  night,  I  found  myself 
in  a  fever.  My  friends  were  greatly  alarmed.  Mrs.  But- 
ler and  her  beloved  daughter  did  me  the  honor  to  pay  me 
a  visit,  and  my  absence  from  the  theatre  was  considered  as 
a  general  calamity.  My  indisposition  increased ;  and  it 
was  several  days  before  I  was  able  to  attend  at  the  theatre. 
When  I  did  so,  a  disagreeable  event  happened,  which  re- 
tarded my  perfect  recovery,  and,  with  some  other  con- 


loS  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

current  circumstances,  was  the  cause  of  my  leaving  Ire- 
land. 

"  Mr.  Sheridan,  in  consequence  of  the  insult  I  had  re- 
ceived from  Mr.  St.  Leger,  as  before  related,  and  on  account 
of  the  inconveniences  arising  from  the  custom,  had  given 
a  general  order  at  the  doors  of  the  theatre,  and  notice  in 
all  public  papers,  that  no  gentleman  was,  on  any  account, 
to  be  admitted  behind  the  scenes.  It  happened  one  night, 
just  as  I  was  so  far  recovered  as  to  venture  to  the  house, 
but  not  to  perform,  that  an  officer,  who  had  more  wine  in 
his  head  than  humanity  in  his  heart,  insisted  on  passing 
the  sentry  placed  at  the  stage  door.  The  poor  fellow  per- 
sisting in  his  refusal  of  admittance,  the  officer  drew  his 
sword  and  stabbed  him  in  the  thigh,  with  so  much  vio- 
lence, that  the  weapon  broke,  and  left  a  piece  in  the  most 
dangerous  part.  Hearing  a  riot  on  the  stage,  I  ran  from 
the  box  in  which  I  sat,  and  flew  in  my  fright  to  the  next 
sentinel  for  protection.  This  happening  to  be  the  man 
who  had  been  wounded,  I  found  myself  in  a  moment  en- 
compassed by  numbers,  and  was  obliged  to  be  a  witness  to 
the  broken  steel  being  taken  out.  The  unexpectedness  of 
this  scene  and  the  terrors  I  was  thrown  into  by  it,  as  I  was 
not  perfectly  restored  to  health,  were  productive  of  a  re- 
lapse. The  man,  however,  happily  recovered  through  the 
placidness  of  his  disposition  ;  but  having  lost  the  use  of 
his  leg,  the  offender,  who  was  a  man  of  quality,  provided 
for  him  for  life. 

"  I  have  already  observed  that  Mr.  Sheridan  was  held  in 
high  estimation  by  the  people  of  Dublin.  The  young  gen- 
tlemen belonging  to  the  college  looked  upon  him  as  a 
divinity.  The  ladies  of  his  acquaintance  flattered  him ; 
and  his  own  vanity  misguided  him." 

He  revived  the  play  of  "  ^Esop"  for  the  new  season. 

"  There  was  no  doubt  but  Mr.  Sheridan,  who  must  be 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  AXXE  BELLAMY.    109 

allowed  to  be  the  best  declaimer  that  ever  trod  oar  stage. 
would  have  made  a  very  capital  figure  in  a  character  which 
was  so  conspicuously  marked  out  for  his  talents,  had  not 
the  performance  been  interrupted  on  the  first  night  of  its 
representation.  The  house  was  so  much  crowded,  that  a 
person,  I  will  not  so  far  degrade  the  title  of  gentleman  as 
to  bestow  on  him  that  appellation,  finding  himself  incon- 
veniently situated  in  the  pit,  got  over  the  spikes  which 
divided  that  part  from  the  stage.  This  removal  received 
marks  of  approbation  from  many  of  the  audience,  who  by 
no  means  approved  of  the  new  regulation,  which  debarred 
them  from  coming  behind  the  scenes.  Mr.  Kelly  (that 
was  the  person's  name)  was  not  a  little  pleased  that  he  had 
escaped  from  his  confined  situation,  and  at  the  same  time 
showed  by  his  manoeuvre  an  appearance  of  courage,  which 
he  was  conscious  he  did  not  really  possess. 

"Elevated  with  his  success,  he  made  his  way  to  the 
green-room.  Having  heard  much  of  the  liberties  taken 
by  the  gentlemen  with  the  performers,  during  the  time 
that  they  were  admitted  behind  the  scenes,  I  had  adopted 
Mr.  Qnin's  mode  of  confining  myself  to  my  dressing- 
room.  But  being  apprehensive  that  I  was  not  perfect  in  a 
scene  which  was  mostly  lines,  and  which  I  was  to  repeat 
in  the  next  act,  I  went  into  the  green-room  to  request 
Mrs.  Dyer  to  run  it  over  with  me. 

"  When  I  entered  the  room,  I  observed  that  lady  to  be 
giddy  confused,  and  that  she  could  not  move  out  of  an 
arm-chair  in  which  she  sat,  from  a  man's  impeding  her. 
She  whispered  me  as  I  drew  near,  that  Kelly  had  most 
grossly  insulted  her.  Upon  which,  not  considering  the 
brutality  of  a  drunken  man,  particularly  of  an  illiterate 
Irishman  when  drunk,  I  asked  her  why  she  stayed  to  hear 
him.  I  had  no  sooner  said  this,  than  I  observed  I  had 
offended  the  brute,  and  accordingly  ran  out  of  the  green- 


HO  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

room  into  my  dressing-room,  which  adjoined  to  it.  When 
I  got  in,  I  prudently  locked  the  door,  judging  that  a 
wretch  who  could  dare  to  insult  a  woman  with  an  indeli- 
cate .conversation,  would  dastardly  strike  or  misuse  any  of 
the  sex  on  a  supposed  offence.  It  was  a  very  providential 
circumstance  that  I  had  pursued  this  step;  for  I  had 
scarcely  done  so,  when  Kelly  pursued  me,  and  attempted 
to  force  the  door;  at  the  same  time  swearing  vengeance 
against  me.  The  noise  which  Kelly  made  at  my  dressing- 
room  door  alarmed  the  audience,  and  drew  the  manager 
to  inquire  into  the  cause  of  it.  Finding  Kelly  thus  riot- 
ously disposed,  he  desired  him  to  quit  the  scenes.  The 
other  refusing,  Mr.  Sheridan  ordered  him  to  be  turned  out 
by  force.  He  now  found  room  in  the  pit,  as  several  of 
the  manager's  friends,  on  hearing  the  disturbance,  had  left 
their  places,  and  gone  into  his  room  to  learn  the  occasion 
of  it.  The  play  proceeded  till  we  were  come  to  the  first 
scene  of  the  last  act,  when  an  orange  or  apple  was  thrown 
at  Mr.  Sheridan,  who  played  the  character  of  ^Esop,  and 
so  well  directed,  that  it  dented  the  iron  of  the  false  nose 
which  he  wore,  into  his  forehead. 

"  Mr.  Sheridan  was  not  only  born  and  bred  a  gentleman, 
but  possessed  as  much  personal  courage  as  any  man  breath- 
ing. It  may,  therefore,  be  supposed,  that  he  would  not 
put  up  with  such  an  indignity.  He  went  forward,  and 
addressed  the  audience,  or  the  person  that  was  supposed  to 
throw  it ;  but  what  he  said,  my  fright  prevented  me  from 
hearing.  The  curtain  was  then  dropped,  and  the  piece 
left  unfinished.  The  foolish  being  who  had  occasioned 
this  confusion,  Kelly,  now  went  to  the  manager's  room  to 
demand  satisfaction.  And  this  he  immediately  gave  him 
in  the  most  ample  manner,  with  an  oak  stick  which,  as 
^Esop,  he  had  carried  in  his  hand  during  the  performance ; 
whilst  Kelly,  to  the  great  entertainment  of  such  of  Mr. 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  AffNE  BELLAMY,    m 

Sheridan's  friends  as  were  present,  fell  upon  the  ground  in 
tears,  crying  out  at  the  same  time,  that  he  should  severely 
repent  this  usage  to  a  gentleman.  To  the  disgrace  of  the 
military  (for  he  wore  a  cockade  during  this  humiliating 
scene),  Mr.  Kelly  had  a  sword  by  his  side. 

"  When  the  manager  had  given  Kelly  this  severe  correc- 
tion for  his  insolence  and  brutality,  he  suffered  him  to 
crawl  away,  for  walk  he  could  not,  to  Lucas's  Coffee  House. 
As  soon  as  he  got  there,  he  claimed  the  compassion  of  the 
company ;  and  having  informed  them  how  ill  he  had  been 
used,  to  interest  them  the  more  in  his  favor,  falsely  added, 
that  Mr.  Sheridan  had  had  the  audacity  to  declare  that  he 
was  a  better  gentleman  than  any  one  who  had  been  that 
night  at  the  theatre.  It  is  necessary  to  acquaint  you,  that 
Lucas's  Coffee  House  is  the  place  to  which  the  Irish  gen- 
tlemen usually  resort  to  decide,  in  an  honorable  way,  their 
quarrels.  Whilst  the  combatants  retire  into  the  yard  to 
acquire  glory,  the  rest  of  the  company  flock  to  the  window, 
to  see  that  no  unfair  advantages  are  taken,  and  to  make 
bets  on  which  of  them  falls  first.  And  of  these  combats, 
I  can  assure  you,  there  are  not  a  few;  the  Hibernians 
being  extremely  captious ;  and  very  often  ready  to  take 
offence  where  none  is  intended.  You  must  '  speak  by  the 
card'  amongst  them,  or  a  quarrel  will  ensue.  They  are 
possessed  of  many  good  qualifications,  but  this  seems  to  be 
one  of  the  foibles  of  the  country. 

"  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  persons  of  this  cast 
should  be  easily  excited  to  enter  into  any  proposal  which 
seemed  likely  to  be  productive  of  a  riot.  More  especially, 
as  most  of  the  frequenters  of  Lucas's  at  that  time  had  a 
natural  antipathy  to  all  learning  except  that  kind  of  knowl- 
edge which  enabled  them  to  distinguish  good  claret  from 
bad.  They  therefore  one  and  all  agreed  to  sally  forth,  to 
lay  siege  to  Smock  Alley  Theatre,  and  sacrifice  the  pre- 


H2  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

sumptuous  manager  of  it  for  having  forfeited  the  name  of 
gentleman,  by  appearing  upon  the  stage.  They  likewise 
had  another  excitement,  which  was  no  less  powerful  with 
persons  of  their  liberal  way  of  thinking ;  and  that  was  his 
having  had  the  misfortune  to  have  had  a  classical  education, 
which  he  had  greatly  impro.ved  by  application  and  intense 
study. 

"  Mr.  Sheridan  not  supposing  any  persons  could  be 
found  weak  enough  to  abet  such  a  cowardly  being,  imagined 
the  affair  was  over  at  least  for  that  night ;  and  he  had  re- 
tired, to  enjoy  himself  with  some  of  his  friends.  The 
theatre  was  also  shut  up.  The  heroes,  however,  made  a 
brave  assault  against  it,  and  strove  to  force  the  doors.  But 
finding  them  too  strongly  barricaded  to  hope  for  success, 
they  retired. 

"  The  next  evening  the  '  Fair  Penitent'  was  to  be  per- 
formed for  the  benefit  of  a  public  charity.  Notwithstanding 
which,  upon  the  appearance  of  Mr.  Sheridan  in  the  char- 
acter of  Horatio,  the  Bucks,  as  they  termed  themselves, 
immediately  arose,  and  cried,  'Out  with  the  ladies  and 
down  with  the  house.'  It  is  impossible  to  describe  to  you 
the  horrors  of  a  riot  at  a  Dublin  theatre.  The  consterna- 
tion and  fright  which  it  occasioned  among  the  ladies,  with 
whom  the  stage  was  exceedingly  crowded,  is  beyond  con- 
ception. Husbands  and  brothers  were  busily  employed  in 
taking  care  of  their  wives  and  sisters  ;  and  all  was  a  scene 
of  confusion. 

"  Mr.  Sheridan  was  early  advised  by  his  friends  to  quit 
the  house  ;  but  he  would  not  hear  of  it.  However,  when 
the  rioters  leaped  upon  the  stage,  and  threatened  his  life, 
he  found  a  retreat  absolutely  necessary  for  the  preservation 
of  it.  Had  he  not  prudently  taken  this  step,  those  sons  of 
Bacchus  would  certainly  have  put  their  threats  into  execu- 
tion ;  for  they  broke  open  every  door  in  the  house,  to  find 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    113 

the  offender,  as  they  called  him.  These  dastardly  ruffians 
broke  open  the  wardrobe,  and  as  they  could  not  find  the 
manager,  they  revenged  themselves  upon  the  stuffing  of 
Falstaff,  which  they  stabbed  in  many  places. 

"  In  their  researches  they  did  me  the  honor  of  a  visit. 
Two  gentlemen  of  quality  having  joined  the  rioters  out  of 
curiosity,  one  of  them  Mr.  Edward  Hussey,  now  Lord 
Beaulieu,  the  other  Mr.  Mirvan,  they  came  to  the  door  of 
my  dressing-room,  and  very  politely  told  me,  they  were 
come  to  protect  me  from  insult.  But  apprehending  them, 
in  my  fright,  to  be  leaders  of  the  mob,  and  finding  that 
the  rioters  were  determined  to  leave  no  part  of  the  theatre 
unsearched,  instead  of  returning  thanks  for  their  politeness, 
as  I  should  have  done,  I  answered  with  some  acrimony, 
'  that  my  room  was  an  improbable  place  to  find  the  person 
they  wanted,  as  I  certainly  should  not  undress,  was  there  a 
gentleman  in  it.' 

"  Upon  this  Kelly  advanced,  and  mistaking  me.  as  I  im- 
agined, for  Mrs.  Dyer,  said  I  was  the  person  who  had  occa- 
sioned all.  the  disturbance.  And  I  don't  know  whether  I 
should  have  escaped  further  insult  had  I  not,  in  a  resolute 
tone  of  voice,  ordered  them  to  quit  the  room.  To  this  at 
length  they  consented,  upon  being  permitted  to  lift  up  the 
covering  of  my  toilette,  to  see  whether  the  manager  was 
there.  As  soon  as  they  were  departed  I  hurried  to  my 
chair,  and  Mr.  Hussey  had  the  humanity  to  walk  by  the 
side  of  it,  to  see  me  safe  home.  And  I  was  never  more 
rejoiced  in  my  life  than  when  I  found  myself  secure  within 
the  doors. 

"  The  magistrates  having  reason  to  apprehend  that  greater 
mischief  would  ensue  if  the  theatre  continued  open,  ordered 
it  to  be  shut  up  till  the  benefits  commenced.  The  affair, 
however,  did  not  end  here ;  for  the  College  boys,  as  they 
are  usually  termed,  in  order  to  revenge  the  cause  of  theii 
10* 


H4  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

fellow  student,  as  well  as  to  show  their  resentment  at  being 
deprived  of  their  favorite  amusement,  took  it  into  their 
heads  to  pay  Mr.  Fitzgerald,  Mr.  Kelly,  and  several  other 
ringleaders  of  the  rioters  a  morning  visit,  and  obligingly 
invited  them  to  partake  of  a  breakfast  at  their  college ; 
where  they  bestowed  as  much  cold  water  upon  them  from 
their  pumps,  as  served  to  keep  their  heads  perfectly  cool  to 
defend  their  cause  against  the  manager,  who  had  com- 
menced the  same  day  a  prosecution  against  them." 

IV. 

The  heroine  now  prepared  to  fly  from  these  troubles  and 
to  return  to  London.  Connected,  however,  with  her  stay 
in  Dublin  was  a  little  incident  which  introduces  those 
famous  beauties,  the  Gunnings,  who  were  later  to  perform 
on  a  more  brilliant  stage.  They  had  "  cut"  their  humbler 
companion,  and  the  actress  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal  her 
resentment  against  the  old  friends  who  had  neglected  her. 

"After  the  account  I  gave  you  in  my  last,  can  you  wonder, 
madam,  at  my  being  less  pleased  with  the  profession  I  was 
engaged  in,  than  I  was  when  youth  and  inexperience  pre- 
sented to  my  view  only  the  pleasing  side  of  it ;  or  that  I 
grew  tired  of  a  country  where  I  was  subject  to  such  continual 
alarms  ? 

"  I  am  now  about  to  mention  an  .incident  in  my  life, 
which  relates  to  persons  who  have  made  a  very  conspicuous 
figure  in  the  great  world.  As  I  was  returning  one  day  from 
rehearsal,  at  the  bottom  of  Britain  Street,  I  heard  the  voice 
of  distress.  Yielding  to  an  impulse  of  humanity,  I  over- 
leaped the  bounds  of  good  breeding,  and  entered  the  house 
from  which  it  proceeded.  When  I  had  done  this,  led  by 
an  irresistible  attraction,  I  entered  without  ceremony  the 
parlor,  the  door  of  which  appeared  to  be  guarded  by  persons 
not  at  all  suited  to  those  within.  I  here  found  a  woman  of 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    II5 

a  most  elegant  figure,  surrounded  by  four  beautiful  girls,  and 
a  sweet  boy  of  about  three  years  of  age.  After  making  the 
necessary  apologies  for  my  abrupt  intrusion,  I  informed  the 
lady,  that  as  the  lamentations  of  her  little  family  had  reached 
my  ears  as  I  passed  by,  I  had  taken  the  liberty  of  a  neighbor 
to  inquire  if  I  could  render  her  any  service. 

"Mrs.  Gunning,  for  that  was  the  lady's  name,  arose 
immediately  from  her  seat,  and  calling  me  by  my  name, 
thanked  me  for  the  offer  of  my  assistance,  complimenting 
me  at  the  same  time  upon  possessing  such  humane  sensa- 
tions. She  then  informed  me,  that  having  lived  beyond 
their  income,  her  husband  had  been  obliged  to  retire  into 
the  country,  to  avoid  the  disagreeable  consequences  that 
must'ensue.  That  she  had  been  in  hopes  that  her  brother, 
Lord  Mayo,  listening  to  the  dictates  of  fraternal  affection, 
would  not  suffer  a  sister  and  her  family  to  be  reduced  to 
distress ;  but  that  his  lordship  remained  inflexible  to  her 
repeated  solicitations.  The  ill-looking  men,  I  now  found, 
had  entered  the  house  by  virtue  of  an  execution,  and  were 
preparing  to  turn  her  and  her  children  out  of  doors. 

"  Upon  this,  Mrs.  Gunning  and  myself  went  upstairs  to 
consult  what  was  best  to  be  done  in  so  disagreeable  a  pre- 
dicament. We  there  determined  that  I  should  return  home, 
and  send  my  man-servant,  who  was  to  wait  under  the  window 
of  the  drawing-room  in  the  evening,  and  bring  to  my  house 
everything  that  could  be  thrown  to  him.  It  was  further 
agreed,  that  as  my  mother  and  I  had  more  room  than  we 
could  conveniently  occupy,  the  children  and  their  servant 
should  remain  with  us,  whilst  she  went  to  her  husband  to 
assist  him  in  settling  his  affairs.  The  whole  of  our  plan 
being  carried  into  execution,  Miss  Burke,  Mrs.  Gunning's 
sister,  a  lady  of  exemplary  piety,  who  had  passed  her  pro- 
bation in  the  community  of  Channel  Row,  sent  shortly  after 
for  the  two  youngest  girls,  and  the  two  eldest  were  permitted, 


Il6  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

to  my  great  pleasure,  to  remain  at  our  house.  As  the  beauty 
of  these  ladies  has  since  made  so  much  noise  in  the  world, 
and  has  been  so  recently  imprinted  on  the  memory  of  every 
rank,  it  will  be  unnecessary  here  to  give  a  description  of 
them.  I  shall,  therefore,  only  observe,  that  the  eldest, 
Maria,  the  late  Countess  of  Coventry,  was  all  life  and 
spirits ;  and  that  Miss  Betty,  the  younger,  now  Duchess  of 
Argyll,  &c.,  &c.,  with  a  longer  train  of  noble  titles  than  per- 
haps ever  woman  enjoyed  before  her,  was  more  reserved  and 
solid. 

"  Here  I  must  beg  your  permission  to  relate  to  you  a 
singular  anecdote  concerning  the  ladies  who  have  given 
rise  to  the  foregoing  reflection,  and  myself,  which  I  have 
lately  recollected.  I  say,  beg  your  permission ;  because, 
whilst  the  incident  seems  to  carry  with  it  the  appearance 
of  great  credulity  in  me,  the  relation  of  it  here  will  look  as 
if  I  expected  to  find  some  degree  of  the  same  propensity  in 
you. 

"  But  as  the  fact  really  happened,  and  I  can  vouch  for 
the  truth  of  it,  I  will  give  you  the  circumstances  of  it,  just 
as  they  arose,  without  endeavoring  to  account  for  a  prefer- 
ence, the  verity  of  which  has  since  been  confirmed  with  the 
most  extraordinary  punctuality.  Her  Grace  of  Argyll,  who 
was  one  of  the  trio,  will,  I  doubt  not,  readily  recollect  the 
adventure.* 

"  The  eldest  Miss  Gunning,  conscious  of  her  charms, 
even  at  that  early  period  of  her  life,  and  wishing  to  know 
whether  they  would  procure  her  that  elevation  which  her 
youthful  vanity  taught  her  to  hope  for,  prevailed  upon  me 
to  accompany  her  and  her  sister  Betsy  to  a  sybil,  alias  a 

*  The  point  of  this  sarcastic  reminder  will  be  evident  when  it  is  remem- 
bered that  "her  Grace  of  Argyll"  was  living  when  these  memoirs  were 
published. 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY,    uj 

female  fortune-teller,  who  from  some  lucky  discoveries  she 
had  made  (probably  from  her  having  privately  acquired  a 
knowledge  of  the  parties)  was  considered  as  an  oracle 
throughout  the  whole  city  of  Dublin.  So  great  was  the 
fame  she  had  acquired  by  her  reputed  skill  in  prognostica- 
tion, that  she  was  dubbed  with  the  pre-eminent  title  of 
Madam  Fortune,  as  if  she  was  the  blind  directress  of  events 
herself,  or  her  immediate  representative. 

*'  That  we  might  avoid,  as  much  as  possible,  giving  the 
prophetess  any  clue  by  which  to  judge  of  our  real  situation 
in  life,  we  all  three  habited  ourselves  in  mean  attire,  and 
instead  of  going  in  the  carriage,  walked  to  her  house.  To 
add  to  the  deception,  I  put  on  a  wedding-ring,  which  I  had 
borrowed  of  a  friend  for  that  purpose. 

"  Upon  Miss  Molly's  being  ushered  into  her  presence, 
she,  without  any  hesitation,  told  her  that  she  would  be 
titled  (SQ  she  expressed  herself),  but  far  from  happy.  When 
Miss  Betsy  appeared,  she  declared  that  she  would  be  great 
to  a  degree,  and  that  she  would  be  happy  in  the  connections 
which  conduced  to  that  greatness;  but  from  a  want  of 
health  (which  alone  can  give  value  either  to  riches  or 
grandeur),  she  would  find  a  considerable  abatement  to  that 
happiness.  When  your  humble  servant  presented  herself, 
she  said  I  might  take  off  the  ring  I  wore,  as  I  never  was, 
nor  ever  would  be  married,  unless  I  played  the  fool  in  my 
old  age.  To  this  she  added,  that  opulence  would  court 
me  and  flattery  follow  me;  notwithstanding  which,  through 
my  own  folly,  I  should  be  brought  to  indigence. 

"  I  will  not,  as  I  said  before,  pretend  to  account  for  this 
extraordinary  instance  of  anticipating  future  events ;  but  a 
retrospection  of  the  five  preceding  volumes  of  my  life  will 
prove  that  the  old  sybil  happened  to  be  right  in  her  predic- 
tions of  the  future  fate  of  my  two  visitants,  as  well  as  my- 
self. But  so  little  heeded  by  me  were  the  admonitions 


!i8  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

they  ought  to  have  conveyed,  that  I  thoughtlessly  ran  on 
the  rock  I  was  cautioned  to  beware  of,  and  unhappily  split 
upon  it.  ... 

"  During  the  winter,  '  Romeo  and  Juliet'  being  bespoke 
by  some  persons  of  quality,  Lady  Coventry  (late  Miss 
Maria  Gunning),  with  some  other  ladies  of  the  first  dis- 
tinction, were  in  the  stage-box.  I  have  already  mentioned 
my  intimacy  with  this  beautiful  woman,  when  she  was  a 
girl,  and  the  circumstances  which  occasioned  it.  But  I 
had  not  seen  her  since  that  time,  except  a  few  days  before 
her  marriage,  when  she  did  me  the  favor  to  call  upon  me, 
on  a  little  pecuniary  business. 

"In  the  scene  where  Juliet  drinks  the  supposed  poison, 
just  as  I  was  got  to  the  most  interesting  part  of  that  solil- 
oquy, it  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  laugh,  which  issued  from 
the  box  where  her  Ladyship  sat.  The  silent  attention  in 
which  the  rest  of  the  audience  were  enrapt  made  such  a 
circumstance  the  more  striking.  It  had  so  great  an  effect 
upon  me,  that,  being  wholly  disconcerted,  and  unable  to 
proceed,  I  was  obliged  to  request  leave  to  retire  till  I  could 
collect  myself.  The  audience  were  offended  at  the  inter- 
ruption this  levity  had  occasioned,  and  insisted  upon  the 
ladies  quitting  the  box,  which  they  accordingly  did. 

"A  gentleman  in  the  side-boxes  reproached  Lady  Cov- 
entry with  her  rudeness  and  ingratitude.  Upon  which  she 
was  pleased  to  say  she  could  not  bear  me  since  she  had  seen 
Mrs.  Gibber.  As  this  was  no  other  than  my  brother,  Cap- 
tain O'Hara,  he  aloud  made  her  Ladyship  a  retort,  but  not 
the  retort  courteous.  This  added  to  mortify  her  vanity,  and 
hastened  her  departure.  The  late  Lord  Eglington,  one  of 
the  politest  men  of  his  time,  who  was  of  the  stage-box 
party,  came  into  the  green-room  to  make  an  apology.  And 
this  he  did  by  assuring  me  that  no  offence  was  meant  to 
me;  the  laugh  that  Lady  Coventry  had  broke  out  into 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    119 

being  involuntary,  and  excited  by  her  twirling  an  orange 
upon  her  finger,  and  some  ridiculous  thing  that  was  said 
upon  the  occasion.  I  admitted  the  excuse,  and  finished 
my  part  with  as  much  approbation  as  ever. 

"  The  next  morning  my  brother  came,  and  informed 
me  of  what  her  Ladyship  had  foolishly  uttered.  L'pon 
which  I  rang  for  the  house  steward,  and  delivering  him  the 
note  she  had  given  me,  when  Miss  Gunning,  for  the  money 
she  had  borrowed  of  me  a  few  days  before  her  nuptials,  I 
ordered  him  to  go  with  it  to  Lord  Coventry's  for  payment. 

"  Quince  waited  till  her  Ladyship  came  in  from  riding  ; 
when  presenting  the  note  to  her,  she  returned  it,  saying, 
'What!  is  it  Mrs.  Bellamy  the  actress?'  To  which  my 
domestic,  who  daily  saw  me  treated  in  a  different  manner 
by  ladies  greatly  her  superiors,  answered  that  it  was,  and 
that  I  expected  the  money  to  be  paid.  Upon  which,  turn- 
ing upon  her  heel,  her  Ladyship  said,  '  If  she  is  imperti- 
nent, I  will  have  her  hissed  off  the  stage  !'  The  man,  un- 
accustomed to  such  treatment,  replied,  '  That  continuing 
on  the  stage  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  his  mistress ; 
but  if  she  chose  to  perform,  it  was  not  in  her  Ladyship's 
power  to  prevent  it.'-  Having  said  this,  he  left  the  house, 
as  he  saw  there  was  no  probability  of  succeeding  in  his 
errand.  He,  however,  had  not  got  far,  before  a  servant 
followed,  and  informed  him  that  the  money  should  be  sent 
shortly. 

"  But  from  that  hour  I  never  heard  anything  more  of  or 
from  her  Ladyship  concerning  the  money.  Indeed,  I  had 
not  the  least  expectation  of  ever  getting  it  again  when  I 
gave  it  her,  nor  should  I  have  taken  the  note  from  her,  had 
she  not  forced  it  upon  me.  Such  a  trifle,  at  that  period, 
was  of  very  little  consequence  to  me.  And  as  resentment 
never  made  me  any  long  visits,  finding  my  heart  an  unfit 
receptacle,  I  placed  it  to  account  with  former  favors,  and 


I20  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

thought  no  more  about  it.  I  was  much  displeased  with 
myself  at  having  been  hurt  at  a  folly,  of  which  her  Lady- 
ship had  given  so  many  instances.  Had  I  time  and  inclina- 
tion, I  have  room  here  to  add  a  supplement  to  these  remarks 
on  the  scarcity  of  gratitude,  which  Dr.  Francis's  grateful 
conduct  excited.  I  shall,  however,  only  refer  you  to  them, 
and  leave  you  to  make  the  application.  And  to  show  how 
very  different  the  lady's  sentiments  had  formerly  been,  I 
send  you  a  copy  of  a  letter  I  once  received  from  her,  and 
which  bears  this  singular  address:  'To  Miss  Bellamy  in 
England.1  As  it  is  much  defaced  by  time,*  there  are  several 
breaks  in  it,  but  it  is  given  in  its  present  state,  and  at  the 
same  time,  verbatim  et  literatim. 

"'I  Recd  my  Dearest  Miss  Bellamy  Letter  at  Last:  after 
her  long  silence,  indeed  I  was  very  Jealous  with  you,  but 
you  make  me  amen's  in  Letting  me  hear  from  you  now,  it 
gives  me  great  Joy  &  all  our  faimely  to  hear  that  yr  Dr 
mama  and  your  Dearest  self  are  in  perfict  Health  to  be  sure 
all  y*  Relations  where  fighting  to  see  which  of  them  should 
have  you  first  and  Longest  with  ym.  I  hope  you  are  a  most 
tird  of  england,  and  that  we  shall  soon  have  your  sweet 
company  in  Ireland,  where  you  will  be  heartily  welcome, 
it  gives  me  vast  pleasure  to  hear  you  haves  thoughts  of 

coming  over,  my  Lady To  be  sure  I  dont  wonder 

at  it,  for  you  know  her  heart  and  soul  was  rapit  up  in  his, 
as  to  hows  bing  the  next  heir  I  believe  it  will  be  how  my 
Lord  pleases,  he  is  in  ye  Country  &  my  Lady  is  with  us  she 
cant  go  to  her  own  house  I  belive  she  will  go  strait  to 
england  to  Miss  Bour,  I  was  very  unfortunate  to  be  in  the 
country  when  our  Vaux  Hall  was,  if  I  was  in  Town  I  sho'd 
be  thear  &  I  believe  I  should  be  much  more  delighted  than 
at  a  publicker  devertion,  I  am  quit  alterd  since  I  saw  you, 

*  The  original  is  in  the  hands  of  the  publisher. 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    J2i 

there  is  nothing  I  love  so  much  as  solitude ;  I  dont  believe 
it  was  Mr,  knox  you  read  of  at  Bath,  fot  he  is  hear  and 
pray  write  me  word  when  you  saw  or  heard  from  Mr. 

Crump.     is  out  Town  this  tew  months   past  ever)' 

in  the  Country,  Dublin  is  y*  stupites  place in 

the  world  I  hope  ye  winter  will  be  more tho  I  see  no 

great  Liklihood  of  it,  for  I  believe  Shredian  can  get  know- 
body  to  play  with  him  is  doing  all  he  can  to  get  frinds  for 
him  sef  to  be  sure  you  have  bread  he  is  marrd  for  sirtain 
to  Miss  Chamberlan  a  sweet  pare, 

"'Papa  &  mama  &  Miss  Betty  &  Miss  Kittys  sincer 
love  and  comp15  to  y*  &  y*  mama  y*  Littel  Husband  sends 
you  ten  Thousand  kisses  he  whisses  he  had  you  hear  to 

.gnc  y"  to  you  he  says  they  W1  be  swe Lipes  than  on 

paper  without  making Comp*5  he  shakes  me  so  I  cant 

write  —  Miss  Bellamy  will  excuse  this — 

"  '  I  must  bid  a  due  &  shall 
only  say  I  am  my  D*  your 
ever  affec"*. 

" '  M.  GUNNING. 

"•Dublm  August  31. 

"  'MB  Judy  begs  leave  to  give  her  Comp15  to  you,  &:  is 
rejoyes'd  to  hear  you  are  well,  she  is  in  a  very  bad  state 
of  health.' " 

Miss  Wynne  also  records  a  special  instance  of  their  un- 
graciousness to  an  old  Dublin  friend.  All  accounts  indeed 
show  that  the  beauties  were  rather  unamiable.  Boswell's 
amusing  scene  at  Inverary  Castle  with  the  Duchess  of  Ar- 
gyll— who  exhibited  a  resentment  that  was  almost  a  viola- 
tion of  the  duties  of  hospitality — is  familiar  to  every 
reader.  "  The  lady  of  quality"  writes  : — 

"Mrs.  Gunning  consulted  Sheridan  as  to  what  she 
should  do  with  her  two  beautiful  but  penniless  daughters. 


122  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

He  recommended  that  they  should  be  presented  at  the 
Castle ;  here  a  great  difficulty  occurred  :  by  what  possible 
means  were  they  to  procure  court  dresses?  This  Sheridan 
obviated :  he  was  at  that  time  manager  of  the  Dublin 
Theatre,  and  offered  them  a  loan  of  the  stage  dresses  of 
Lady  Macbeth  and  Juliet.  In  these  they  appeared  most 
lovely;  and  Sheridan,  after  having  attended  the  toilet, 
claimed  a  salute  from  each  as  his  reward.  Very  soon  after 
this  a  most  diabolical  scheme  was  formed  by  some  unprin- 
cipled young  men.  They  invited  Mrs.  Gunning  and  her 
two  daughters  to  dinner,  and  infused  strong  narcotics  in 
the  wine,  intending  to  take  advantage  of  the  intoxication 
which  must  ensue  to  carry  off  the  two  young  women. 
Fortunately,  Sheridan  discovered  their  base  designs,  and 
arrived  just  in  time  to  rescue  the  ladies.  He  lived  to  see 
one  of  these  girls  Duchess  of  Argyll,  and  the  other  Coun- 
tess of  Coventry ;  and,  it  is  melancholy  to  add,  lived  to  see 
his  application  for  admission  to  their  parties  rejected. 

"Lady  Coventry  enjoyed  one  very  singular  triumph. 
Having  one  day  casually  mentioned  to  the  king,  that  she 
could  not  walk  in  the  Mall  because  the  crowd  who  came 
to  gaze  at  her  pressed  round  her  in  a  way  that  was  quite 
alarming,  his  Majesty  gallantly  exclaimed  that  the  finest 
woman  in  England  should  not  be  prevented  from  gracing 
the  Mall.  He  desired  that  whenever  £he  wished  to  walk 
she  would  send  notice  to  the  captain  upon  guard,  and  at 
the  same  time  ordered  that  she  should  be  attended  by  a 
sergeant's  guard.  She  walked  several  times  with  this  train  : 
of  course  the  crowd  increased  ;  but  they  were  prevented 
from  pressing  upon  her,  and  her  vanity,  which  was  ex- 
cessive, must  have  received  the  highest  gratification  in 
this  singular  distinction."* 

*  These  stories  of  the  Gunnings  might  be  amply  confirmed  from  con- 
temporary accounts.  Horace  Walpole  states  that  they  borrowed  court 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    123 

But  Mrs.  Piozzi  tells  a  more  curious  story.  "  A  Mr. 
Head,"  she  says,  "whose  real  name  was  Plunkett,  a  low 
Irish  parasite,  dependent  on  Mr.  Thrale  primarily,  and  I 
suppose,  secondarily  on  Mr.  Murphy,  was  employed  by 
them  in  various  schemes  of  pleasure,  as  you  men  call  prof- 
ligacy :  and  on  this  occasion  was  deputed  to  amuse  them 
by  personating  some  lord,  whom  his  patrons  had  promised 
to  introduce  to  the  beautiful  Miss  Gunnings  when  they 
first  came  over  with  intent  to  make  their  fortunes.  He  was 
received  accordingly,  and  the  girls  played  off  their  best 
airs,  and  cast  kind  looks  on  his  introducers  from  time 
to  time,  till  the  fellow  wearied,  as  Johnson  says,  and  dis- 
gusted with  his  ill-acted  character,  burst  out  on  a  sudden  as 
they  sate  at  tea  and  cried,  '  Catamaran  !  young  gentlemen 
with  two  shoes  and  never  a  heel :  when  will  you  have  done 
with  silly  jokes  now  ?  Leddies ;'  turning  to  the  future 
peeresses,  '  never  mind  these  merry  boys ;  but  if  you  really 
can  afford  to  pay  for  some  incomparable  silk  stockings,  or 
true  India  handkerchiefs,  here  they  are  now :'  rummaging 
his  smuggler's  pocket ;  but  the  girls  jumped  up  and  turned 
them  all  three  into  the  street,  where  Thrale  and  Murphy 
cursed  their  senseless  assistant,  and  called  him  Head,  like 
lucus  a  non  lucendo,  because  they  swore  he  had  none.  The 
Duchess  (of  Hamilton),  however,  never  did  forgive  this 
impudent  frolic;  Lady  Coventry,  more  prudently,  pre- 
tended to  forget  it." 

dresses  from  Peg  Woffington,  to  attend  a  drawing-room  at  the  Castle. 
Dublin,  and  writes  thus  of  them  in  1751 :  "  There  are  two  Irish  girls 
of  no  fortune,  who  are  declared  the  handsomest  women  alive.  I  think 
there  being  two  so  handsome,  and  both  such  perfect  figures,  is  their  chief 
excellence,  for,  singly,  I  have  seen  much  handsomer  figures  than  either : 
however,  they  can't  walk  in  the  park,  or  go  to  Vauxhall,  but  such  mobs 
follow  them  that  they  are  therefore  driven  away." 


124 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


V. 


Returned  to  London,  the  heroine  was  presently  sur- 
rounded by  admirers  who  besieged  her  with  their  addresses 
— Mr.  Metham,  Count  Haslang,  one  of  the  foreign  ambas- 
sadors, Mr.  Calcraft,  Mr.  West  Digges  (a  well-known  actor 
of  the  day,  who  was  in  some  cloudy  way  connected  with 
the  Delawarr  family),  and  even  the  Right  Hon.  Mr.  Fox, 
afterwards  Lord  Holland.  The  lady,  it  must  be  said,  was 
not  very  cruel  to  this  varied  list  of  worshipers,  and  chroni- 
cles her  various  embarrassments  with  the  naivete  of  a  perse- 
cuted maid.  It  is,  however,  a  curious  illustration  of  the 
tone  of  the  times  that  she  should  have  counted  among  her 
patronesses  many  ladies  of  rank  and  ton,  though  the  warm 
interest  that  was  taken  in  her  might  be  accounted  for  by  a 
certain  simplicity  of  nature  that  was  observed  in  her,  com- 
bined with  a  sort  of  rustic  piety  that  appeared  to  be  genu- 
ine. This  simplicity  is  seen  in  her  singular  account  of  an 
engagement  she  entered  into  with  the  most  persevering  of 
these  suitors,  the  eminent  contractor,  Mr.  Calcraft,  who 
appears  to  have  been  a  singularly  odious  character.  She 
relates  how  this  gentleman  dispatched  an  emissary  of  his 
own  with  his  proposals.  "  This  gentleman  went  on  to 
inform  me,  that  Mr.  Calcraft,  in  whose  praise  he  launched 
out,  had  it  not  in  his  power  to  marry  me  immediately,  as 
his  dependence  on  Mr.  Fox  prevented  him  from  doing  so. 
But  that  the  paper  he  held  in  his  hand  was  the  copy  of  a 
contract  of  marriage,  in  which  Mr.  Calcraft  had  engaged, 
under  the  forfeiture  of  fifty  thousand  pounds,  to  make  me 
his  wife,  within  the  term  of  six  or  seven  years ;  in  which 
time,  from  every  appearance,  there  was  no  doubt  of  his 
acquiring  such  an  independency  as  would  enable  him  to 
avow  his  situation.  But  at  present  he  could  not  suffer  the 
ceremony  to  be  performed,  as  his  patron  had  enjoined  him, 


TUB  S7&SY  OF  GE&mGE  AMOK  BELLAMY. 


.-       -     : 


125 


be  bad  too  great  a  wgud  to  bis  bomr,  wtedk  be  bad 
pledged  to  bis  patroa,  to  pvdoBC  evm  BC  at  Ac  expense 

ofit.    Astbi^swRmaMiiasitaalia^liebadtdboa^ 
of  tbs  Method  as  Ibe  oaly  OK  by  wbncfe  be  conuM  seoare 

•     .       -..     '     '.•:-_-      •     -     :  " --     v  ;  :-; 

"I  beaid,  with  patience,  Mr.  Gaand  wyeat  Ms  T^O^S 

:7.i;.:-.f  :'.-  -  .:  :  -TS-.-.:  :•:•:  ::•::      :•::  -,-  -.1 :  ;  ;  ;._,   -  -  ;  .  -- 

90  tihun  I  expicsscd,  in  tbe  stiKMBgESlt  In  MIV;,  BBT 

tiam  to  de  fatter,  at  bis  takiag  tbe  KBsenty  of 

either  Mr.  Gaud  or  Mi|9tlf  «f»  tbe  smiqssdL     I  ttlwam 

aoHBed  boa,  fbat  I  mas  firamiy  leaolivd  mewr  to  Sbxnm  am j 

„- n    _„          a       ii^--     ^_j     fl  njl     lt.-ji.  IL. 

coMHcnon  wDDaisocvor^  ana  cieieum  GBC  WBUKK  IIOL  nme  Bneaor 

Mr.  CaBoadft,  «bo  was  TisMy  aftdted  at  my 

r  i.-  ;  :-  r    '  ...  -     -------- 


imL     "Bhe  tboagbft  of 

MIL  -     jiaiwfl     ¥    t&4ltt  Tig-    1BLtL 

tbe  blow,  tdhomi  Zani^  «SM 
Mr.  Caioaft  wnateti  bis  feefin^s  Jim 


faa^  peneveved,  amdn  att  ttastt,  tthe 


I26  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

married  a  darling  daughter  to  an  hereditary  prince.  As 
for  myself,  I  still,  like  the  patriarch's  dove,  longed  to  re- 
turn to  the  home  where  all  my  happiness  had  so  long  been 
deposited ;  and  had  I  known  the  real  situation  of  the  man 
that  had  offended  me,  instead  of  waiting  for  his  submis- 
sion, I  should  myself  have  produced  the  olive  branch,  and 
have  sued  for  peace.  When  we  returned  to  town,  the  con- 
tract was  left  with  Mr.  Gansel,  as  a  place  of  the  greatest 
security,  and  as  being  lodged  in  the  hands  of  one  of  my 
most  zealous  friends." 

After  suffering  for  some  time  from  this  man's  ill-treat- 
ment, she  naively  professed  to  be  amazed  at  the  discovery 
that  he  had  all  this  time  been  secretly  married,  and  that 
her  own  extraordinary  engagement  became  thus  invali- 
dated. Harassed  with  anxieties,  she  was  seized  with  a 
dangerous  illness,  and  reduced  to  the  point  of  death.  That 
a  contract  of  the  kind  had  been  entered  into,  there  can  be 
no  doubt,  as  the  incident  presently  became  one  of  the 
scandals  of  the  time.  She  printed  an  appeal  to  the  public, 
with  a  copy  of  the  engagement,  which  Mr.  Calcraft  suc- 
ceeded in  suppressing  at  the  time,  though  it  appeared 
later. 

VI. 

The  eccentric  course  of  her  adventures  was  diversified 
with  little  incidents  that  curiously  illustrate  the  manners 
of  the  day  and  the  customs  of  the  stage."  She  thus  tells  the 
story  of  the  "Chicken  Gloves." 

"  I  must  here  entertain  you  with  an  humorous  instance 
of  my  vanity's  being  humbled  j  and  which,  though  it  may 
extort  a  smile  from  you,  had  like  to  have  cost  your  humble 
servant  very  dear. 

"  Having  received  some  ridiculous  compliments  upon  the 
beauty  of  my  hand,  and  my  vanity  not  being  a  little  aug- 
mented thereby,  I  determined  to  try  every  art  in  my  power 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  AKXE  BELLAMY. 


127 


to  render  it  more  conspicuously  white,  and  more  worthy 
of  the  praises  that  had  been  bestowed  upon  it.  Accord- 
ingly, in  order  to  attain  this  grand  point,  which  I  then 
thought  of  the  utmost  consequence,  I  sent  to  Warren's,  the 
perfumer,  for  a  pair  of  chicken  gloves. 

"  When  I  had  obtained  these  wonder-working  coverings. 
I  drew  them  on  as  I  went  to  rest ;  and  with  some  difficulty 
prevailed  on  Clifford  to  fasten  my  hands  to  the  bed's  head, 
to  accelerate  the  wished-for  effect.  Thus  manacled,  and 
pleasing  myself  with  the  expectation  of  finding  my  project 
succeed,  I  fell  asleep.  But,  O  dire  to  tell !  I  had  not 
become  the  vassal  of  Morpheus  above  two  hours,  when  I 
awoke,  and  found  that  I  had  totally  lost  the  use  of  my 
right  hand. 

"Alarmed  by  the  accident,  I  hastily  called  my  maid, 
who  lay  in  an  adjacent  room,  to  come  and  unshackle  me ; 
and  finding,  when  my  arms  were  at  liberty,  that  my  appre- 
hensions were  too  true,  I  ordered  her  to  send  immediately 
for  one  of  the  faculty.  In  about  half  an  hour,  a  gentleman 
came;  and  upon  being  informed  of  the  terrible  calamity 
that  had  befallen  me,  and  the  dreadful  disappointment  I 
had  experienced,  he,  laughing,  told  me,  that  he  would  take 
such  methods  as  should  effectually  cure  my  white  hand. 
And  this  he  executed  according  to  the  letter  of  his  promise : 
for  he  applied  to  my  arm  a  mustard  blister,  which  extended 
from  my  shoulder  to  my  finger's  end.  An  application  that 
was  not  only  attended  with  excruciating  pain,  but  was  pro- 
ductive of  great  mortification ;  for  both  the  public  and 
myself  were  debarred  from  the  pleasure  of  viewing  the 
beauty  I  so  much  prided  myself  in  for  a  long  time,  as  I 
was  obliged  to  wear  gloves  during  the  remainder  of  the 
winter." 

Again  ;  the  audiences  of  the  time  were  more  independent 
than  they  are  at  present,  and  took  a  more  direct  share  in 


128  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

the  business  of  the  stage.  Our  heroine  had  recently  broken 
her  arm — 

"Mr.  Rich,"  she  says,  "was  very  pressing  for  me  to 
come  to  town.  At  length  I  found  myself  so  well  recovered 
as  to  attend  the  duties  of  the  theatre.  The  first  character 
I  made  my  appearance  in  was  that  of  Rutland,  in  the  '  Earl 
of  Essex.'  When  I  came  to  the  mad  scene,  I  threw  my- 
self on  the  floor  as  usual ;  and,  in  order  to  prevent  my  late 
fractured  arm  from  receiving  any  injury  from  the  fall,  I  fell 
on  my  right  side  instead  of  my  left.  Mrs.  Clive,  who  was 
in  the  boxes,  observing  this,  her  good-nature  got  the  better 
of  her  recollection,  and  she  cried  out,  '  O,  she  has  broken 
her  other  arm  !'  The  audience  took  the  alarm,  and,  still 
honoring  me  with  their  favor,  called  out,  with  a  kind  con- 
cern, for  the  curtain  to  be  dropped.  But  finding,  by  my 
agility  in  rising,  that  I  had  not  hurt  myself,  they  suffered 
me  to  proceed." 

Of  all  the  queens  of  the  stage,  perhaps,  there  is  no  such 
dramatic  figure  as  that  of  Mrs.  Woffington.  Her  good- 
nature, her  boldness,  wit,  dramatic  talents,  and  beauty, 
combine  to  make  her  a  most  interesting  character,  and  her 
story,  a  contribution  to  the  romance  of  the  stage.  In  Wil- 
kinson's Recollections  she  figures  pleasantly,  but  the  simple 
and  graceful  tribute  paid  to  her  by  one  of  her  own  pro- 
fession has  a  deeper  significance  than,  pages  of  lengthy 
panegyric. 

"To  her  honor  be  it  ever  remembered,"  says  the 
Prompter  of  the  Dublin  Theatre,  "  that  whilst  thus  in  the 
zenith  of  her  glory,  courted  and  caressed  by  all  ranks  and 
degrees,  it  made  no  alteration  in  her  behavior ;  she  remained 
the  same  gay,  affable,  obliging,  good-natured  Woffington  to 
every  one  around  her.  She  had  none  of  those  occasional 
illnesses  which  I  have  sometimes  seen  assumed  by  capital 
performers,  to  the  great  vexation  and  loss  of  the  manager, 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    T2g 

and  disappointment  of  the  public  :  she  always  acted  four 
times  each  week. 

"  Not  the  lowest  performer  in  the  theatre  did  she  refuse 
playing  for;  out  of  twenty-six  benefits,  she  acted  in 
twenty-four,  and  one  of  the  other  two  was  for  Mrs.  Lee, 
who  chose  to  treat  the  town  with  an  exhibition  of  her  own 
Juliet.  Such  traits  of  character  must  endear  the  memory 
of  Mrs.  Woffington  to  every  lover  of  the  drama."* 

But  such  a  heroine,  flattered,  courted  and  perhaps  a  little 
spoiled,  would  naturally  feel  intolerant  of  a  rival.  She 
could  put  on  scornful  moods,  when  she  thought  a  con- 
temptible mimic  had  dared  to  make  free  with  her  peculiar- 
ities, and  she  was  not  likely  to  be  indulgent  to  a  beautiful 
woman  like  Bellamy  who  disputed  the  throne  with  her. 
The  former  regarded  her  with  the  bitterest  hostility,  and 
the  two  ladies  had  an  open  quarrel  which  excited  the 
amusement  of  the  town,  and  set  the  pens  of  the  wits  at 
work.  The  story  of  their  jealousies  is  most  amusing. 

"  Mr.  Rich  had  been  advised  to  revive  Lee's  tragedy  of 
*  Alexander,'  as  the  character  of  that  hero  would  suit  the 
powers  and  show  the  person  of  Barry  to  singular  advantage. 
The  parts  of  the  rival  queens  he  judged  would  be  likewise 
well  filled  by  Mrs.  Woffington  and  myself.  The  animosity 
this  lady  had  long  borne  me  had  not  experienced  any  de- 
crease. On  the  contrary,  my  late  additional  finery  in  my 
jewels,  etc.,  had  augmented  it  to  something  very  near 
hatred.  I  had  during  the  summer  given  Madam  Montete, 
wife  of  the  hair-dresser  of  the  time,  who  was  going  to 
Paris,  a  commission  to  bring  me  from  thence  two  tragedy 


*  Hitchcock,  T.  ii_  223.     For  a  faDer  account  of  Woffington  the  editor 

may  be  allowed  to  refer  to  his  "  Life  of  Garrick."  which,  with  Ac  sketches 

found  in  Tale  Wilkinson's  RecoBectkws  given  farther  on.  famish  a  picture 

of  the! 

F* 


130  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

dresses,  the  most  elegant  she  could  purchase.  I  have 
already  observed,  that  the  proprietor  allowed  me  a  certain 
sum  to  find  my  own  habiliments. 

"  My  chargee  d*  affaire  opened  her  credentials  at  Madam 
Bonfoy's,  principal  marchand  du  mode  in  that  metropolis. 
I  had  requested  this  lady  to  consult  Brilliant,  who  would 
consult  Du  Menil.  She  was  likewise  to  take  the  joint 
opinion  of  all  the  people  of  taste  there,  upon  an  affair  of 
such  momentous  consequence.  The  revival  of  *  Alexander' 
furnished  me  with  an  opportunity  of  showing  all  my  ele- 
gance in  the  character  of  the  Persian  Princess. 

"My  royal  robes  in  which  I  had  represented  the  Em- 
press Fulvia,  in  Doctor  Francis's  '  Constantine,'  to  the 
great  loss  of  the  public,  had  not  been  seen  by  them. 
They  were  showy  and  proper  for  the  character.  But  in 
these  robes  de  cours,  taste  and  elegance  were  never  so 
happily  blended.  Particularly  in  one  of  them,  the  ground 
of  which  was  a  deep  yellow.  Mr.  Rich  had  purchased  a 
^uit  of  her  Royal  Highness's,  the  Princess  Dowager  of 
Wales,  for  Mrs.  Woffington  to  appear  in  Roxana.  It  was 
not  in  the  least  soiled,  and  looked  very  beautiful  by  day- 
light ;  but,  being  a  straw-color,  it  seemed  to  be  a  dirty 
white  by  candle-light;  especially  when  my  splendid  yellow 
was  by  it.  To  this  yellow  dress  I  had  added  a  purple 
robe  ;  and  a  mixture  so  happy  made  it'appear,  if  possible, 
to  greater  advantage. 

"Thus  accoutred  in  all  my  magnificence,  I  made  my 
entree  into  the  green-room  as  the  Persian  Princess.  But 
how  shall  I  describe  the  feelings  of  my  inveterate  rival ! 
The  sight  of  my  pompous  attire  created  more  real  envy  in 
the  heart  of  the  actress  than  it  was  possible  the  real  Roxana 
could  feel  for  the  loss  of  the  Macedonian  hero.  As  soon 
as  she  saw  me,  almost  bursting  with  rage,  she  drew  herself 
up,  and  thus,  with  a  haughty  air,  addressed  me:  'I  desire, 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    I3I 

madam,  yon  will  never  more,  upon  any  account,  wear 
those  clothes  in  the  piece  we  perform  to-night/ 

"  Yon  are  too  well  acquainted  widf  my  disposition,  and 
so,  I  dare  say,  are  my  readers  by  this  time,  to  suppose  this 
envious  lady  took  the  proper  way  to  have  her  request 
granted.  I  replied,  *  I  know  not,  madam,  by  what  right 
yon  take  upon  you  to  dictate  to  me  what  I  shall  wear.  Ar.d 
I  assure  you,  madam,  yon  must  ask  it  in  a  very  different 
manner  before  you  obtain  my  compliance.'  She  now  found 
it  necessary  to  solicit  in  a  softer  strain ;  and  I  readily  gave 
my  assent.  The  piece  consequently  went  through  without 
any  more  murmuring  on  her  part,  whatever  might  be  her 
sensations. 

"However,  the  next  night  I  sported  my  other  suit, 
which  was  much  more  splendid  than  the  former.  This  re- 
kindled Mrs.  Woffington's  rage,  so  that  it  nearly  bordered 
on  madness.  When — oh !  dire  to  tell ! — she  drove  me  off 
the  carpet,  and  gave  me  the  coup  de  grace  almost  behind 
the  scenes.  The  audience,  who  I  believe  preferred  bearing 
my  last  dying  speech  to  seeing  her  beauty  and  fine  attitude, 
could  not  avoid  perceiving  her  violence,  and  testified  their 
displeasure  at  it. 

"  Though  I  despise  revenge,  I  do  not  dislike  retaliation. 
I  therefore  put  on  my  yellow  and  purple  once  more.  As 
soon  as  I  appeared  in  the  green-room,  her  fury  conld  not 
be  kept  within  bounds,  notwithstanding  one  of  the  corps 
diplomatique  was  then  paying  homage  to  her  beauty,  and 
for  the  moment  made  her  imagine  she  had  the  power  of 
control  equal  to  a  real  queen.  She  imperiously  questioned 
me,  bow  I  dared  to  dress  again  in  the  manner  she  had  so 
strictly  prohibited  ?  The  only  return  I  made  to  this  in- 
solent interrogation  was  by  a  smile  of  contempt.  It  was 
not  long  before  I  had  my  plenipo  likewise,  the  never-fail- 
ing Comte  de  Haslang,  to  whom  I  told  the  reason  of  my 


I32 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


changing  my  attire,  which  was  meant  par  oblique  to  her. 
Upon  hearing  which,  she  immediately  sent  for  Mr.  Rich ; 
but  that  gentleman  prudently  declined  attending  her 
summons. 

"Being  now  ready  to  burst  with  the  contending  passions 
which  agitated  her  bosom,  she  told  me  it  was  well  for  me 
that  I  had  a  minister  to  supply  my  extravagance  with  jewels 
and  such  paraphernalia.  Struck  with  so  unmerited  and 
cruel  a  reproach,  my  asperity  became  more  predominant 
than  my  good-nature,  and  I  replied,  I  was  sorry  that  even 
half  the  town  could  not  furnish  a  supply  equal  to  the 
minister  she  so  illiberally  hinted  at.  Finding  I  had  got 
myself  into  a  disagreeable  predicament,  and  recollecting  the 
well-known  distich,  that 

1  He  who  fights,  and  runs  away, 
May  live  to  fight  another  day  ;' 

I  made  as  quick  an  exit  as  possible,  notwithstanding  I  wore 
"the  regalia  of  a  queen.  But  I  was  obliged  in  some  measure 
to  the  Comte  for  my  safety,  as  his  Excellency  covered  my 
retreat,  and  stopped  my  enraged  rival's  pursuit ;  I  should 
otherwise  have  stood  a  chance  of  appearing  in  the  next 
scene  with  black  eyes,  instead  of  the  blue  ones  which 
nature  had  given  me. 

"The  next  season  Mr.  Foote  profited  by  this  behavior 
of  Mrs.  Woffington,  and  produced  a  little  piece,  which  he 
entitled,  '  The  Green-room  Squabble ;  or,  a  Battle  Royal 
between  the  Queen  of  Babylon  and  the  Daughter  of 
Darius.'  It  may  be  supposed  that  after  so  public  a  rupture 
we  never  spoke.  This  taciturnity  continued,  till  being 
upon  her  death-bed,  some  years  after,  she  requested  to  see 
me.  She  then  informed  me,  that  she  had  once  done  me 
an  intentional  injury,  by  prevailing  upon  one  of  her  lovers 
to  show  Mr.  Fox  a  letter  of  mine  which  had  accidentally 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  AXXE  BELLAMY.    I33 

fallen  into  her  hands,  and  the  contents  of  which  would 
admit  of  a  different  interpretation  from  what  it  was  de- 
signed to  convey.  Her  malicious  intention  had  not,  how- 
ever, the  desired  effect,  as  that  gentleman  and  myself  were 
not  upon  the  terms  she  suspected,  or  at  least  wished  to 
have  thought.  I  own  I  could  not  refrain  from  being  much 
surprised  at  the  wickedness  and  meanness  of  the  intended 
injury.  And  though  my  humanity  prompted  me  to  forgive 
an  offence  which  seemed  to  lie  so  heavy  on  her  mind.  1 
left  the  lady  as  soon  as  possible  to  reflect  upon  the  illiber- 
ality  of  such  a  proceeding." 

Of  such  fashion  was  her  strange  life — a  mixture  of 
pleasure,  adventure,  extravagance,  and  hardship.  Bu:  her 
fickleness  had  alienated  many  friends  and  patrons,  and  her 
love  of  amusement,  pleasure,  and  recklessness  made  her 
neglect  the  stage.  Then  humiliations  of  all  kinds  set  in  ; 
she  could  hardly  procure  an  engagement,  and  the  once 
peerless  heroine  was  contemptuously  offered  six  pounds  a 
week  by  Mr.  Colman  ! 

The  first  reminder  of  decay  was  her  reception  in  Dublin. 

YIL 

It  was  the  season  of  1760  when  the  exciting  contest 
between  Barry  and  Woodward  on  one  side,  and  Mossop 
on  the  other,  was  raging,  and  the  great  world  of  fashion 
was  divided  into  two  parties,  each  supporting  a  rival 
house,  just  as  in  the  great  struggle  of  the  Opera  Houses 
in  the  days  of  Mr.  Lumley.  Mr.  Mossop,  whose  own 
story  is  of  a  tragic  cast,  hoping  to  turn  the  balance  by 
bringing  over  the  once  attractive  Bellamy,  agreed  to  pay 
her  the  sum  of  a  thousand  pounds,  which  was  utterly  dis- 
proportioned  to  the  value  of  her  service.  "  He  relied  on 
the  old  tradition  of  some  thirteen  years  before,  when," 
says  Wilkinson,  "she  was  esteemed  a  first  actress,  was 

12 


134  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

looked  at  as  a  charming  elegant  young  woman,  and  was 
the  universal  toast  in  Ireland."  She  candidly  owns  that 
there  was,  at  first,  disappointment  and  surprise  at  the 
change  in  her  appearance,  but  hints  that  this  impression 
was  removed  on  the  following  day  by  repose.  She  admits, 
too,  that  she  "was  by  no  means  so  well  received  as  she 
had  formerly  been."  But  this  she  fancied  was  owing  to 
her  formerly  having  had  no  competitor. 

"  My  arrival  having  been  hourly  expected,  curiosity  had 
induced  many  of  the  students  of  the  College  to  watch  for 
my  coming.  I  accordingly  found  the  door  of  the  house, 
at  which  I  was  to  alight,  crowded  with  them,  in  expecta- 
tion of  beholding  a  wonder.  For  it  could  not  enter  into 
the  imagination  of  those  young  gentlemen,  that  any  less 
than  a  perfect  beauty  had  been  so  general  a  topic  of  con- 
versation, and  the  subject  of  so  many  poetical  compli- 
ments from  their  predecessors. 

"  One  of  my  female  domestics  was  tolerably  handsome  ; 
-she,  therefore,  at  first  caught  their  eyes ;  but,  as  she  had 
not  the  appearance  of  elegance  which  distinguishes  the 
gentlewoman,  the  mistake  was  but  momentary.  At  length 
I  stepped  out  of  the  coach.  The  long  expected  phenomenon 
now  made  her  appearance.  But  oh,  how  different  a  figure 
from  what  their  imagination  had  depictured  !  Fashion  to 
yourself  the  idea  of  a  little  dirty  creature  bent  nearly  double, 
enfeebled  by  fatigue,  her  countenance  tinged  with  jaundice, 
and  in  every  respect  the  reverse  of  a  person  who  could  make 
the  least  pretensions  to  beauty.  Such  was  I,  when  I  pre- 
sented myself  to  the  sight  of  the  gazing  crowd.  And  so 
great  and  natural  was  their  surprise  and  disappointment, 
that  they  immediately  vanished,  and  left  me  to  crawl  into 
the  house  without  admiration  or  molestation. 

"I  spent  the  evening  at  the  Parliament  House,  where 
many  of  the  seniors  of  the  College,  as  well  as  the  Provost, 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY,    jjg 

were  present.  Others  likewise  came  to  see  the  fright  which 
had  excited  the  disgust  of  the  curious  in  the  morning. 
Nothing  is  so  favorable  to  an  object  as  exaggerated  dis- 
praise. For,  with  only  the  assistance  of  ablution,  and  in 
the  most  simple  dress  (simplicity  in  my  dress  being,  as  I 
have  already  observed,  my  constant  adoption,  except  when 
finery  was  absolutely  needful ;  and  I  always  scorned  to  owe 
any  addition  to  art,  which  I  disliked  as  much  in  the  adorn- 
ment of  the  person  as  of  the  mind),  I  made  a  more  favor- 
able impression  upon  the  company  than  could  have  been 
expected." 

But  there  was  an  observant  performer  playing  in  Dublin, 
who  gives  a  truer  account  of  what  took  place.  He  sketches 
the  poor  decayed  creature,  with  a  not  unkind  bluntness,  but 
the  contrast  to  her  complacent  account  is  very  striking. 
"Mossop,  as  manager,"  writes  Tate  Wilkinson,  "made 
his  first  appearance  in  Pierre,  in  'Venice  Preserved,'  Bel- 
vedera,  Mrs.  Bellamy,  being  the  first  night  of  her  perform- 
ing. Expectation  was  so  great  that  the  house  filled,  as  fast 
as  the  people  could  thrust  in  with  or  without  paying.  On 
speaking  her  first  line  behind  the  scene, — 

"  Lead  me,  ye  virgins,  lead  me  to  that  kind  voice," 

it  struck  the  ears  of  the  audience  as  uncouth  and  unmusical ; 
yet  she  was  received,  as  was  prepared  and  determined  by  all 
who  were  her  or  Mr.  Mossop's  friends,  and  the  public  at 
large,  with  repeated  plaudits  on  her  entree.  But  the  roses 
were  fled  !  the  young,  the  once  lovely  Bellamy  was  turned 
haggard  !  and  her  eyes,  that  used  to  charm  all  hearts,  ap- 
peared sunk,  large,  hollow,  and  ghastly.  O  Time  !  Time  ! 
thy  glass  should  be  often  consulted !  for  before  the  first 
short  scene  had  elapsed,  disappointment,  chagrin,  and  pity 
sat  on  every  eye  and  countenance. 


136  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

"  By  the  end  of  the  third  act,  they  were  all  (like  Bobadil) 
planet-struck ;  the  other  two  acts  hobbled  through.  Mossop 
was  cut  to  the  heart,  and  never  played  Pierre  (one  of  his 
best  parts)  so  indifferently  as  on  that  night.  The  curtain 
dropped,  and  poor  Bellamy  never  after  drew  a  single  house 
there.  She  left  Dublin  without  a  single  friend  to  regret 
her  loss.  What  a  change  from  the  days  of  her  youth  !  and 
as  an  actress  of  note,  her  name  never  more  ranked  in  any 
theatre,  nor  did  she  ever  again  rise  in  public  estimation." 

Still  the  poor  foolish  lady  launched  out  into  fresh  extrav- 
agance— though  she  had  left  a  load  of  debt  behind  her  in 
London.  Here  is  a  specimen  of  what  she  exposed  herself 
to.  "My  bill,"  she  says,  "for  wine  and  other  articles, 
had  of  Mr.  Crump,  amounted  to  ^400. 

"Though  I  received  fifty  guineas  a  week,  yet  through 
the  extravagance  of  my  servants,  and  my  own  thoughtless- 
ness, I  had  not  a  guinea  beforehand.  But,  to  my  great 
surprise,  I  heard  that  Mr.  Crump  had  failed :  and  Coates 
4iad  taken  possession  of  his  effects,  books,  etc. 

" '  Coriolanus,'  was  bespoke;  and  Mr.  Mossop  had  the 
agreeable  prospect  of  a  subscription  for  six  plays,  which 
would  enable  him  to  pay  the  performers ;  for  not  one  of 
them  was  regularly  paid  but  myself,  though  by  what  means 
he  expended  his  money  I  could  not  imagine.  As  I  went 
one  day  as  usual  to  the  rehearsal,  I  observed  a  mean-looking 
fellow  run  by  the  side  of  my  chair.  I  called,  in  my  way, 
upon  a  lady.  Still  the  same  man  was  my  attendant. 
Having  no  suspicion  of  any  danger  from  him,  I  attributed 
it  to  the  beauty  of  my  sedan ;  which,  indeed,  attracted 
every  eye. 

"  I  had  some  company  at  dinner,  which  made  it  rather 
later  than  usual  when  I  set  out  for  the  theatre.  As  my 
chairmen  entered  Damask  Street,  the  man  who  had  fol- 
lowed me  in  the  morning  knocked  at  the  front  window  of 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    I37 

my  chair,  and,  when  I  had  let  it  down  showed  me  a  bit  of 
paper.  Upon  my  inquiring  what  it  was,  he  told  me  it  was 
a  writ  for  the  two  hundred  pounds  I  owed  Coates,  as  suc- 
cessor to  Crump's  affairs,  and  insisted  that  I  should  go 
with  him.  I  told  him  he  should  have  the  money,  if  he 
would  go  to  the  theatre,  and  that  I  would  likewise  make 
him  a  handsome  present  for  the  permission.  But  this  he 
would  not  consent  to  do  :  as,  he  said,  he  had  particular 
orders  from  the  plaintiff  to  the  contrary. 

"  This  being  the  case,  I  made  a  virtue  of  necessity,  and 
went  with  him  to  a  house  in  Skinner  Row.  When  I  got 
there,  I  sent  for  Coates,  but  he  was  not  to  be  found.  The 
officer  now  candidly  told  me,  that  the  intention  of  taking 
me  in  the  evening  was  to  prevent  my  appearing  at  the 
theatre  that  night.  He  had  been  particularly  warned,  he 
said,  not  to  arrest  me  in  the  morning,  as  they  were  well 
assured  I  should  have  paid  the  debt,  and  by  that  means 
have  disappointed  their  purpose.  It  was  two  o'clock  in 
the  morning  before  the  plaintiff  could  be  met  with,  and 
as  he  had  given  orders  that  the  affair  should  only  be  settled 
by  himself,  I  was  obliged  to  wait  with  patience  his  coming. 
Mrs.  Molloy  and  Miss  Ly'll  visited  me  in  my  durance; 
and  I  believe  the  officer's  house  was  never  so  graced  be- 
fore. 

"Mrs.  Usher  had  been  obliged  to  read  my  part.  As 
soon  as  the  play  was  over,  Mr.  Mossop  came  to  me.  And 
I  was  vastly  apprehensive  that  he  would  have  caned  Coates. 
This  was  what  the  man  seemed  to  wish,  for  such  a  vulgar 
impertinent  I  never  heard  before.  He  had  the  impudence 
to  tell  us,  that  he  knew  he  should  easily  have  got  the 
money,  but  he  w'shed  to  prevent  my  playing  that  night. 
'Everything,'  continued  he,  '  is  fair,  where  interests  clash.' 

"When  Mr.  Digges  (a  new  lover)  found  me  in  this  sit- 
uation, he  was  like  a  distracted  man.  His  first  business 

12* 


138  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

was  to  give  a  most  severe  chastisement  to  Coates ;  which, 
together  with  some  other  embarrassments  in  his  private 
affairs,  obliged  him  to  leave  Dublin." 

Such  was  a  type  of  the  life  that  was  now  before  her. 
With  the  decay  of  her  charms,  came  fresh  debt  and  em- 
barrassment :  arrests  in  the  open  street — with  protection, 
then  secured  by  "being  made  housekeeper  to  Count  Has- 
lang,"  whose  suite  as  belonging  to  an  ambassador  enjoyed 
immunity  from  law  process.  Later  came  callousness, — 
the  result  of  such,  struggles, — the  usual  shifts  and  battles 
with  creditors,  the  pawning  or  sale  of  jewels  and  dresses — 
and,  at  last,  final  residence  within  the  Rules. 

"As  soon  as  Mr.  Fox,  and  some  other  guests,  who  had 
dined  with  me,  were  departed,  I  prepared  to  go  to  his 
Excellency's  to  cards  ;  but,  as  I  passed  through  Jermyn 
Street,  I  was  overtaken  by  the  wretch's  brother,  who,  al- 
most breathless  with  running  after  me,  informed  me  that  a 
man,  who  came  up  at  the  same  time,  had  an  action  against 
.me,  at  his  sister's  suit.  The  shock  had  such  an  effect  upon 
me,  that  I  dropped  down  speechless  in  the  street.  Two 
such  insults,  so  quickly  succeeding  each  other,  were  not  to 
be  supported.  Had  the  latter  come  singly,  I  could  have 
borne  it  with  Roman  fortitude ;  but,  united,  they  were  too 
severe  a  trial. 

"  Had  I  been  able  to  preserve  my  reason  upon  this  oc- 
casion, and  been  acquainted  with  the  laws,  I  might  have 
preserved  my  liberty,  at  least  for  that  night :  for  it  seems 
the  fellows  who  arrested  me  had,  in  their  great  hurry,  for- 
got the  warrant ;  without  which,  I  find,  the  caption  is  not 
valid ;  but,  during  my  imbecility,  one  of  them  ran  for  it. 

"  I  was  taken,  during  this  state  of  insensibility,  to  the 
officer's  house  in  Stanhope  Street,  Clare  Market ;  which 
happened  to  be  the  same  where  my  brother,  Captain 
O'Hara,  was  confined.  It  was  so  long  before  I  came  to 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY. 


139 


myself  that  the  surgeon,  who  was  sent  for  to  bleed  me,  was 
apprehensive  for  my  life. 

"  The  mistress  of  the  house  had  some  feeling;  and  seeing 
me  dressed  above  the  common  line,  though  plain,  and 
having  besides  conceived  some  partiality  for  me,  not  only 
on  account  of  my  being  an  actress,  but  as  sister  to  her 
favorite  captain,  who  had  so  often  been  her  lodger,  she 
paid  me  more  attention  than  persons  generally  meet  with 
in  such  places.  She  sent  for  my  maid,  and  kindly  pre- 
vented all  noise  and  confusion  in  the  house  for  five  days, 
during  which  I  remained  in  a  state  of  silent  insanity.  My 
maid,  to  return  the  obligations  she  thought  I  laid  under  to 
all  those  who  sent  to  inquire  after  me,  took  the  servants 
that  brought  the  messages,  which  were  not  a  few,  to  the 
bar,  and  treated  them  with  what  they  would  have;  and 
this  made  no  inconsiderable  addition  to  my  expenses. 

"  The  sixth  morning  of  my  residence  in  this  place,  the 
woman  of  the  house  came  up  to  me,  and  told  me  that  the 
writ  was  returnable  the  next  day,  and  if  I  did  not  eat  and 
drink,  and  get  a  habeas  corpus,  I  should  be  carried  a  corpse 
to  Newgate.  The  name  of  that  dreadful  place  made  me 
tremble ;  but,  at  the  same  time,  it  roused  me  as  if  I  had 
been  electrified.  I  immediately  recovered  from  my  stupid- 
ity, and  asked  her  what  was  to  be  done.  She  informed  me 
that  it  would  be  necessary  for  me  to  employ  an  attorney  to 
procure  a  habeas  for  me,  and  also  to  send  and  engage  a 
lodging  within  the  rules  of  the  King's  Bench.  She  added 
that  her  son,  who  was  an  attorney,  was  below,  and  would 
be  glad  to  serve  me.  She  concluded  by  telling  me  that 
persons  in  the  law  never  advanced  any  money  for  their 
clients;  though  indeed  they  did  not  expect  to  have  their 
bills  settled  immediately,  especially  where  it  was  safe,  as  it 
must  be  with  a  lady  who  had  credit  enough  to  owe  one 
person  twelve  hundred  pounds.  I  startled  at  the  mention 


1 4o  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE   STAGE. 

of  so  large  a  sum,  and  desired  her  to  explain  herself;  which 
she  did  by  telling  me  that  was  the  debt  for  which  the 
execution  was  levied  against  me. 

"  What  was  now  to  be  done  I  scarcely  knew.  I  had  but 
a  few  guineas  about  me. 

"I  now  began  to  consider  whom  I  could  send  to  upon 
this  emergency.  I  had  known  Mrs.  Stacie,  when  her  hus- 
band kept  an  inn  at  Stilton.  They  had  since  removed  to 
the  Bedford  Arms  in  Covent  Garden.  Having  conceived 
a  very  strong  attachment  for  her,  from  frequently  calling  at 
their  house  at  Stilton,  I  had  promised  to  stand  sponsor  to 
the  child  she  was  pregnant  with,  upon  my  return  from  the 
north.  I  had  not  only  performed  this  promise,  but  had 
been  called  upon  to  appear  upon  the  same  occasion  to  two 
others. 

"  Upon  the  strength  of  this  acquaintance,  I  immediately 
applied  to  her  for  twelve  guineas.  I  thought  that  sum,  with 
what  I  had,  would  be  sufficient  to  pay  the  whole  of  my 
expenses  here ;  but,  to  my  inconceivable  surprise,  they 
amounted  to  as  much  again ;  so  that  I  paid  very  handsomely 
for  the  civility  the  mistress  of  the  house  had  shown  me  in 
keeping  it  quiet. 

"Mrs.  Stacie  came  immediately  on  my  sending  to  her, 
and  could  not  refrain  from  tears  at  seeing  me  in  such  an 
unexpected  situation.  Her  husband  nad  given  her  a  bill 
for  twenty  pounds,  which  she  let  me  have ;  and  upon  hear- 
ing that  I  had  obstinately  refused  all  food,  when  she  re- 
turned, she  sent  me  a  supper  of  all  the  niceties  their  house 
afforded. 

"  In  return  for  the  civility  the  mistress  of  the  house  had 
shown  me,  I  asked  her  to  partake  of  the  supper  Mrs.  Stacie 
sent  me.  She  cheerfully  accepted  my  invitation.  During 
our  meal,  she  enumerated  all  the  persons  of  quality  who  had 
occasionally  been  her  visitors.  After  supper,  she  asked  if 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    141 

she  should  entertain  me  with  a  song ;  for  she  was  reckoned, 
she  said,  to  have  a  very  fine  voice.  The  oddity  of  her  man- 
ner, as  she  made  the  proposal,  joined  to  her  masculine 
figure,  had  such  an  effect  upon  my  imagination,  that  I  in- 
stantly burst  into  a  violent  fit  of  laughter.  The  approba- 
tion we  expressed  gave  her  such  sensible  pleasure,  that  she 
concluded  with  telling  me  she  was  sure,  as  I  was  fond  of 
music,  I  must  be  pleased  with  her  voice. 

"  The  next  morning  Mr.  Thomas,  then  Lord  Mansfield's 
clerk,  came  himself  with  the  tipstaff,  to  conduct  me  over 
to  the  warden.  Mr.  Marsden  very  politely  met  me  at  the 
door  of  his  house,  and  conducted  me  into  the  parlor.  My 
attorney  having  attended  Mr.  Woodward  and  Mr.  Stacie 
there  in  the  morning,  to  settle  for  the  Rules,  the  Marshal 
knew  of  my  coming,  and  I  found  everything  usual  for  break- 
fast prepared  against  I  arrived. 

"  This  grand  point  being  settled,  I  went  to  a  little  vile 
lodging,  which  had  been  taken  for  me,  at  the  house  be- 
longing to  the  Windmill  in  St.  George's  Fields.  For  this 
wretched  place  I  was  to  pay  two  guineas  a  week ;  but  the 
time  to  procure  me  a  lodging  had  been  so  short,  that  the 
first  which  offered  was  fixed  upon. 

"Mr.  Marsden  attended  me  himself,  with  great  com- 
plaisance, to  my  new  apartments ;  and  I  was  not  a  little 
surprised,  upon  OUT  being  seated,  at  his  taking  out  a  large 
purse  of  gold,  and  presenting  it  to  me,  with  a  request  that 
I  would  make  use  of  it  for  my  present  exigencies,  and  return 
it  to  him  when  convenient. 

"In  the  evening  that  gentleman  came  to  pay  me  a  visit; 
when  be  advised  me  to  write,  as  soon  as  possible,  to  the 
Attorney-General,  my  much  honored  friend  Mr.  Yorke,  to 
consult  him  upon  my  case.  By  Mr.  Woodward  not  making 
me  an  ofler  of  his  assistance  at  this  time,  I  was  convinced 
that  Miss  Wordley's  supposition  was  well  founded.  Indeed, 


142 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


her  sagacity  and  superior  understanding  enabled  her  to  see 
every  event  clearer,  in  all  points  of  view,  than  most  people. 

"The  next  day  I  desired  her  to  take  a  letter  to  Mr. 
Yorke.  My  honorable  (and  now,  alas  !  my  much  regretted) 
friend  immediately  wrote  me  an  answer,  wherein  he  in- 
formed me,  in  the  kindest  terms,  that  he  would  pay  every 
attention  to  the  affair,  and  would  do  all  in  his  power  to 
extricate  me  from  it.  But  as  nothing  could  be  done  till 
November,  he  requested  me  to  accept  the  inclosed  bills,  in 
lieu  of  what  his  loved  sister,  Lady  Anson,  had  intended  to 
bequeath  me,  had  she  not  been  taken  away  suddenly.  He 
then  advised  me,  if  my  creditor  could  not  be  prevailed  on 
to  compromise  the  debt,  to  stand  trial ;  when  he  was  well 
assured,  he  said,  a  verdict  would  be  given  in  my  favor ; 
but  as  his  Excellency  Comte  Haslang  was  advanced  in 
years,  it  might  continue  pending  over  my  head  for  some 
time.  In  how  pleasing  a  manner  was  this  favor  conferred ! 
the  delicacy  and  politeness  with  which  it  was  accompanied 
gave  it  double  value,  and  claimed  my  warmest  acknowledg- 
ments. 

"  Finding  I  must  make  up  my  mind  to  my  present  situa- 
tion, as  nothing  could  be  done  for  so  long  a  time,  I  sent 
Miss  Wordley  to  seek  out  another  apartment ;  for  though, 
by  Mr.  Yorke's  bounty,  I  found  myself  possessed  of  two 
hundred  pounds,  yet  it  was  visible  that  the  noble  donor 
had  sent  me  that  sum,  on  purpose  to  enable  me  to  compro- 
mise the  debt  with  Mrs.  Ray,  should  she  consent  to  it. 
Miss  Wordley  accordingly  fixed  on  two  rooms  adjoining 
to  the  Dog  and  Duck,  at  twelve  shillings  a  week ;  which 
were  more  eligible,  better  furnished,  and  much  airier  than 
those  I  was  now  in." 

Two  rooms  adjoining  the  '  Dog  and  Duck'  !  To  this 
condition  was  the  beautiful  Bellamy  come  at  last.  The 
rest  of  her  life  was  of  the  same  complexion ;  begging — 


THE  STORY  OF  GEORGE  ANNE  BELLAMY.    143 

complaint — appeal  to  the  public — squalor — destitution.  A 
Benefit  was  arranged  for  her,  and  she  appeared  on  the  stage, 
an  object  more  of  curiosity  than  of  interest. 

"I  dwell  for  a  moment,"  says  the  pleasant  Reynolds, 
"on  a  last  appearance  which  I  witnessed — namely,  that  of 
Mrs.  Bellamy,  who  took  her  leave  of  the  stage  May  24th, 
1785.  On  this  occasion  Miss  Farren,  the  present  Countess 
of  Derby,  spoke  an  address,  which  concluded  with  the 
following  couplet : 

'  But  see,  oppress'd  with  gratitude  and  tears, 
To  pay  her  duteous  tribute  she  appears.' 

The  curtain  then  ascended,  and  Mrs.  Bellamy  being  dis- 
covered, the  whole  house  immediately  arose  to  mark  their 
favorable  inclinations  towards  her,  and  from  anxiety  to 
obtain  a  view  of  this  once  celebrated  actress,  and,  in  con- 
sequence of  the  publication  of  her  life,  then  celebrated 
authoress.  She  was  seated  in  an  arm-chair,  from  which 
she  in  vain  attempted  to  rise,  so  completely  was  she  subdued 
by  her  feelings.  She,  however,  succeeded  in  muttering  a 
few  words,  expressive  of  her  gratitude,  and  then  sinking 
into  her  seat,  the  curtain  dropped  before  her. 

Some  begging  appeals  to  her  old  friend  Tate  Wilkinson, 
"the  Wandering  Patentee,"  whose  adventures  we  shall 
next  follow,  speak  significantly  of  the  straits  and  misery  in 
which  her  life  was  destined  to  close.* 


*  It  is  interesting  to  know  that  so  far  back  as  the  year  1822,  these  me- 
moirs  attracted  the  attention  of  M.  Thiers,  then  a  young  writer  in  the  Con- 
itittUiomnel.  To  a  collection,  entitled  "  Memoires  sur  1'Art  Dramatique," 
now  a  scarce  book,  he  contributed  a  sort  of  abstract  of  "  Mistress  Bel- 
lamy's" story,  in  which  he  dwells  on  what  he  terms  "  the  candor  of  a  great 
soul,  which,  confident  in  the  nobility  of  her  intentions,  revealed  every 
questionable  act  of  her  life."  Her  memoirs,  however,  were  believed  to 
have  been  written  to  her  dictation  by  one  BicknelL 


144  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

CHAPTER    V. 

THE   ADVENTURES    OF    TATE    WILKINSON.* 
I. 

"  I,  Tate  Wilkinson,  whose  various  stage  adventures  and 
sparrings  have  been  permitted,  and  favored  with  accept- 
ance, more  or  less,  in  almost  every  principal  theatre  in 
the  three  kingdoms,  as  Drury  Lane,  Covent  Garden,  Hay- 
market,  Smock  Alley  and  Crow  Street,  Dublin,  Bath, 
Edinburgh,  Portsmouth,  Winchester,  Maidstone,  Birming- 
ham, Chester,  Bristol,  Norwich,  York,  Shrewsbury,  Rich- 
mond in  Surrey,  Exeter,  Glasgow,  Newcastle,  Leeds,  Lynn, 
Pontefract,  Halifax,  Doncaster,  Hull,  Wakefield,  &c.— am 
the  son  of  the  late  Rev.  Dr.  John  Wilkinson,  who  was 
educated  at  St.  Bees  in  Cumberland  and  finished  his 
studies  at  the  university  of  Oxford,  and  who  suffered  trans- 
portation under  the  well-remembered  Marriage  Act  in 
1755.  He  was  his  Majesty's  chaplain  of  the  Savoy,  also 
chaplain  to  his  late  Royal  Highness  Frederic  Prince  of 
Wales.  I,  Tate  Wilkinson,"  (in  this  quaint  fashion  does 
the  graphic  but  somewhat  garrulous  player  commence  his 
story),  "was  born  October  27,  1739;  and,  by  my  father's 
sentence  of  transportation,  was  likely  to  have  been  irre- 
trievably ruined.  I  was,  at  that  critical  period,  at  the  age 
of  seventeen — not  brought  up  to  any  business  or  profession, 
of  a  very  indifferent  constitution,  and  neither  mother  nor 
son  had  the  least  independency. 

"  Previous   to   this  unfortunate   event,   my  father  and 

*  Bom  1739,  died  1803. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.      I45 

mother  had  been  connected  with  the  most  leading  families, 
and  were  universally  acquainted  in  London.  Amongst  our 
various  visitors  were  Lord  and  Lady  Forbes,  from  the  sister 
kingdom.  They  were  so  attached  to  my  father  and  mother, 
as  to  be  almost  inseparable.  That  intimacy  subsisted  on 
so  strong  a  basis,  and  formed  so  firm  a  friendship  that  they 
used  to  call  me  their  own  boy  Tate,  and  their  dear  George's 
only  particular  friend.  They  promised  to  fix  me  genteelly 
in  life ;  and  were  certain  if  George  lived  to  be  Earl  of 
Granard,  Tate  would  be  well  provided  for.  Airy  castles 
too  often  gain  belief  and  dependence,  when  of  a  sudden 
they  disappear,  and  wake  the  deluded  dreamer  from  his 
transitory  vision,  and  in  lieu  present  a  true  mirror  in  which 
he  views  his  actual  state." 

In  the  midst  of  a  round  of  pleasant  junketing,  his  father 
was  brought  to  trial  for  his  continued  infringement  of  the 
marriage  laws  in  the  Savoy,  and  sentenced  to  transportation 
for  fourteen  years. 

"The  time  for  his  departure  was  early  in  March,  1757, 
and  the  last  meeting  between  father,  mother,  and  son  was  in 
that  most  dreadful  of  all  places,  Newgate !  We  who  had 
for  so  many  years  moved  in  a  different  sphere,  and  who 
were  more  than  commonly  united — a  description  of  it  must 
here  be  omitted  ;  but  if  the  sensible,  feeling  mind  will  take 
a  short  pause,  and  honor  the  ashes  of  the  dead  with  a  mo- 
ment's reflection  and  a  tear  of  pity,  it  will  be  only  paying 
a  tribute  due  to  humanity  and  mercy ;  and  from  whence 
ideas  will  flow  in  painting  the  result  of  such  a  tragical, 
affecting  scene,  as  imagination  will  easily  describe  much 
stronger  than  any  words  can  possibly  express. 

"  My  dear,  benevolent,  indulgent,  gracious,  and  loving 
parent,  farewell !  May  your  last  blessing  procure  me,  at 
least,  a  small  portion  of  your  wishes  for  my  short  remains 
of  life. 

G  13 


146  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

"  When  they  reached  the  Downs,  they  could  not  proceed, 
the  winds  would  not  permit  them  ;  from  thence  we  received 
a  letter  containing  an  account  of  my  father  being  but  very 
indifferent,  as  the  gout  had  made  a  severe  attack  in  his 
stomach ;  a  complaint  with  which  he  was  every  year  more 
or  less  afflicted  in  that  dangerous  seat  of  its  residence. 
They  were  driven  by  stress  of  weather  into  Plymouth, 
where  his  enemy,  the  gout,  assisted  by  the  severity  of  the 
elements,  seized  this  dreadful  opportunity  to  league  with 
Death  and  violently  assaulted  a  mind  and  body  already 
loaded  with  anguish,  affection,  and  affliction,  and  by  find- 
ing himself  bereft  of  that  assistance  and  tenderness  from 
those  he  sighed  for,  but  sighed  in  vain  !  the  merciless  in- 
vaders proved  too  mighty  for  his  fortitude  ;  the  noble 
cordage  cracked  and  broke  !  Grim  Death  sat  triumphant 
over  his  conquered  manes  ! 

"Before  the  end  of  this  tragical  story,  I  must  relate  that 
the  captain  of  the  vessel  had  my  father  privately  interred  at 
Plymouth,  from  whence,  as  fatality  seemed  to  pervade  the 
whole  mysterious  event,  on  the  captain's  returning  to  his 
ship,  his  boat  was  overset  by  a  rough  sea,  the  crew  were 
saved,  but  the  captain  perished." 

The  little  boy  had  found  his  way  to  the  theatre,  and  was 
encouraged  to  "  take  off"  the  peculiarities  of  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton,  Quin,  and  other  performers,  which  he  did  also  to  the 
delight  of  friends  of  the  family.  When  he  was  left  almost 
destitute  after  the  death  of  his  father,  he  still  hung  about 
the  side  scenes,  evidently  one  of  those  forward,  pert  young 
fellows  who  extort  a  laugh,  but  about  whom  no  good  is 
prophesied. 

"  My  mother's  friends  were  capable  and  willing  to  afford 
every  support  to  enable  her  to  keep  up  a  decent  appearance, 
both  at  home  and  abroad,  by  a  respectable  assistance; 
which,  when  so  bestowed,  will  ever  gladden  the  oppressed 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE  WILKINSON.     14? 

mind ;  bat  not  when  offered  as  a  supercilious  gift — as  who 
should  say,  '  I  am  Sir  Oracle !'— •  How  good  I  am  I' 

"  The  stage  my  thoughts  had  not  forgot,  though  I  dared 
not  avow  my  inclination  for  it,  fearing  my  patrons  and 
mother  woold  not  prefer  my  being  a  player  to  that  of  an 
officer.  However,  unknown  to  them,  I  plucked  up  cour- 
age, and  waited  on  Mr.  Rich  (the  manager  of  Co  vent 
Garden  Theatre),  and  after  rehearsing  several  speeches 
from  Ricjiard  III.  he  behaved  very  familiarly,  and  desire  i 
me  to  hear  HIM  act  Richard  III.,  and,  his  acting  over,  I 
was  without  loss  of  time  enrolled  on  the  list  of  his  pupils : 
but  after  die  honor  of  *t*"««K"g  his  levees,  baring  free 
admission  behind  the  scenes,  and  receiving  a  few  lessons 
from  him,  he,  to  my  astonishment,  declared  I  was  incapable 
of  becoming  an  actor. 

"  I  lived  on  hopes,  however,  dot  Mr.  Rich  would  ere 
long  perceive  my  genius,  which  I  assured  myself  was  beyond 
compare ;  and  soon  after,  on  my  repeating  the  first  speech 
of  Richard  in.  one  morning  in  the  exact  tone  and  manner 
of  old  Rich,  he  seemed  delighted,  and  I  judged  all  would 
soon  terminate  in  the  accomplishment  of  my  wishes;  bat 
the  following  odd  accident  frustrated  all  my  hopes,  and  I 
innocently  incurred  the  fixed  displeasure  of  Mr.  Rich. 
This  total  overthrow  to  all  my  expectations  was  occasioned 
by  Mrs.  Woffington.  The  cause  was  as  follows :— One  day 
my  old  friend  Captain  Forbes  had  invited  me  to  dine  with 
him  at  the  Bedford  Arms,  and  after  a  choice  dinner,  with 
plenty  of  good  wine,  &rc.,  the  Captain  said, '  TateT  we  will 
go  to  the  play,'  and  added  that  he  wished  to  go  behind 
the  scenes :  but  as  I  went  there  only  on  sufferance,  I  toid 
him  it  was  not  in  my  power  to  oblige  him.  'If  so,'  said 
my  friend  George,  '  we  will  not  separate;  for  I  will  treat 
you  to  the  boxes.'  Being  jolly  with  the  bottle,  I  »********, 
and  when  arrived  at  die  dteatie,  I  could  not  prevail  on 


148  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

him  to  sit  anywhere  but  in  the  stage  box.  He  was  in  full 
guard  regimentals — myself  by  no  means  dressed  fit  to 
appear  as  his  companion  ;  but  as  he  persisted  and  led  the 
way,  I  followed,  and  in  front  of  his  Majesty's  stage  box  we 
were  seated  ;  and  no  more  strange  than  true,  the  lower 
sides  exhibited  a  beggarly  account  of  empty  boxes. 

"Being  in  such  a  conspicuous  situation,  the  eyes  of  the 
performers  from  behind  the  scenes  were  instantaneously 
attracted  on  beholding  a  poor  young  lad — a  mere  depend- 
ent (skulking  nightly  behind  the  curtain) — placed  in  a 
stage  box — they  were,  therefore,  astonished  at  my  audacity 
in  usurping  and  possessing  such  a  particular  seat  of  dis- 
tinction— and  a  creature,  too,  that  was  destitute,  and  so- 
liciting for  bread,  they  naturally  concluded  I  had  gained 
admittance  by  an  order,  and  taken  such  a  place  by  way  of 
ignorant  and  impudent  bravado,  the  which  deserved  chas- 
tisement. They  sent  and  spoke  to  Mr.  Rich,  and  it  was 
agreed  that  Wilkinson  should  be  instantly  ordered  from  his 
improper  situation.  A  messenger  was  sent  to  put  this 
mandate  from  Mr.  Rich  in  full  force.  The  box-keeper 
came  to  me;  and  Captain  Forbes  warm  with  his  wine,  and 
the  insult  offered  to  his  friend,  soon  convinced  the  official 
messenger  of  his  mistake,  and  the  box-keeper  was  sent 
back  to  assure  Mr.  Rich  that  Mr.  Wilkinson  was  seated 
there  by  proper  authority ;  as  Capfain  Forbes,  who  was 
well  known  by  being  a  constant  box  attendant  at  their  the- 
atre, had  paid  ten  shillings  for  admittance.  This,  I  was 
well  informed,  caused  a  general  green-room  laugh  of  con- 
tempt at  the  expense  of  the  poor  poverty-struck  gentleman 
in  the  stage  box :  but  unfortunately  Mrs.  Woffington,  who 
acted  Clarissa,  having  been  frequently  told  that  I  was  re- 
markable for  taking  her  off  (as  the  phrase  was,  and  is), 
came  close  to  the  stage  box,  finishing  her  speech  with  such 
a  sarcastic  sneer  at  me  as  actually  made  me  draw  back. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON. 


149 


My  unfortunate  star  sure  was  then  predominant,  for  at  that 
moment  a  woman  of  the  town,  in  the  balcony  above  where 
I  was  seated,  repeated  some  words  in  a  remarkably  shrill 
tone,  which  occasioned  a  general  laugh  ;  like  electricity  it 
caught  Mrs.  Woffington's  ear,  whose  voice  was  far  from 
being  enchanting;  on  perceiving  the  pipe-squeak  on  her 
right  hand,  and  being  conscious  of  the  insult  she  had  then 
given  apparently  to  me,  it  struck  her  comprehension  so 
forcibly  that  she  immediately  concluded  I  had  given  the 
retort  upon  her  in  that  open  and  audacious  manner,  to 
render  her  acting  and  tone  ridiculous  to  the  audience,  as 
returning  contempt  for  her  devilish  sneer.  She  again 
turned  and  darted  her  lovely  eyes,  though  assisted  by  the 
furies,  which  made  me  look  confounded  and  sheepish  ;  all 
which  only  served  to  confirm  my  condemnation.  When 
the  scene  was  finished,  and  she  had  reached  the  green- 
room, she  related  my  insolence  in  such  terms  as  rendered 
me  a  subject  of  abuse,  contempt,  and  hatred  with  all  the 
company;  but  of  that  circumstance  I  was  quite  ignorant: 
— at  the  instant  I  had,  it  is  true,  observed,  to  my  mortifi- 
cation, Mrs.  WofHngton  looked  angry,  but  could  not 
divine  the  real  cause. 

"  The  noon  following,  when  I  attended  Mr.  Rich's 
levee,  I  was  kept  in  waiting  a  considerable  time ;  but  as 
that  was,  and  is,  the  too  common  fate  of  distressed  de- 
pendence, patience  was  my  friend  and  companion.  At 
last  Mrs.  Woffington  passed  through  the  room  where  I  was 
thus  humiliated,  and  without  a  word,  courtesy,  or  bow  of 
her  head,  proceeded  on  to  her  sedan,  from  which  she  as 
haughtily  returned,  and  advancing  towards  me  with  queen- 
like  steps,  and  viewing  me  most  contemptuously,  said — 
*  Mr.  Wilkinson,  I  have  made  a  visit  this  morning  to  Mr. 
Rich,  to  command  and  to  insist  on  his  not  giving  you  any 
engagement  whatever — no,  not  of  the  most  menial  kind — 
'3* 


1 5o  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

in  the  theatre.  Merit  you  have  none — charity  you  deserve 
not, — for  if  you  did  my  purse  should  give  you  a  dinner. 
Your  impudence  to  me  last  night,  where  you  had  with  such 
assurance  placed  yourself,  is  one  proof  of  your  ignorance ; 
added  to  that  I  heard  you  echo  my  voice  when  I  was 
acting,  and  I  sincerely  hope  in  whatever  barn  you  are  suf- 
fered as  an  unworthy  stroller,  that  you  will  fully  experience 
the  same  contempt  you  dared  last  night  to  offer  me.'  With 
a  flounce  and  enraged  features,  without  waiting  or  per- 
mitting me  to  reply,  she  darted  once  more  into  her  chair. 
I  really  was  so  astonished,  frightened,  and  bewildered,  that 
I  knew  not  how  to  act  or  think,  but  was  relieved  from 
longer  suspense  and  tedious  waiting  by  a  message  from 
Rich,  intimating  that  he  could  not  see  me  at  his  levee, 
either  that  day  or  in  future,  or  listen  to  any  engagement 
whatever ;  for  my  behavior  was  too  gross  and  rude  to  be 
justified,  and  I  must  immediately  depart;  but  the  person 
added,  I  might  continue  the  liberty  of  the  scenes  during 
the  season,  with  this  proviso,  that  I  should  not  on  any 
account  take  the  freedom  to  speak  to  Mr.  Rich.  I  wished 
not,  nor  had  the  power,  to  make  an  answer. 

"  Provisions  were  short  at  home — my  good  mother's 
poverty  increased.  One  good  advantage  this  distress  pro- 
duced was,  that  what  I  should  have  devoured  that  day,  with 
my  noddle  full  of  vanity,  was  reserved  for  the  next — my 
stomach  being  quite  satisfied  with  grief,  shame,  and  vexa- 
tion ;  poverty  pursuing  my  steps.  My  mother  of  course 
execrated  Rich  and  Woffington ;  wept  over  her  darling 
boy,  and  flew  to  that  Refuge,  which  she  often  declared 
always  afforded  her  support,  and  had  never  forsaken  her, 
even  when  sinking  under  the  greatest  affliction  ;  and  that 
Refuge  was  a  constant  address  to  the  Deity,  and  a  trust 
in  His  Divine  mercy.  However,  I  would  not  give  up  the 
play  that  night,  nor  in  a  pet  resign  my  permission  of  being 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.      I5t 

behind  the  scenes;  but  the  theatre  was  no  longer  that 
earthly  paradise  I  had  formed,  for  the  mist  was  removed, 
and  I  saw  actors,  actresses,  and  myself  in  a  different  mir- 
ror which  convinced  me  what  we  all  really  were. 

"  When  I  went  into  the  green-room,  an  universal  laugh  of 
contempt  ensued.  Woffington,  the  queen  bee  of  the  hive, 
was  there  ;  I  had  disturbed  and  offended  her  Majesty  ;  and 
therefore  all  her  faithful  servants,  bee-like,  joined  to  sting 
me,  except  Mr.  Shuter,  who  saw  my  distress  and  good-na- 
turedly took  me  by  the  hand,  led  me  to  his  dressing-room 
and  desired  me  not  to  be  cast  down ;  but  observed  I  must 
not  enter  the  green-room  again,  as  they  were  one  and  all 
determined  on  my  banishment.  In  such  a  situation,  it 
will  naturally  be  conceived  I  had  a  claim  to  pitv  and  some 
little  protection,  and  that  players  must  of  course  be  the 
most  cruel  of  all  people. 

"Mrs.  Woffington  ever  had  a  train  of  admirers;  she 
possessed  wit,  vivacity,  &c.,  but  never  permitted  her  lo%-e 
of  pleasure  and  conviviality  to  occasion  the  least  defect  in 
her  duty  to  the  public  as  a  performer.  Six  nights  in  the 
week  has  been  often  her  appointed  lot  for  playing  without 
murmuring;  she  was  ever  ready  at  the  call  of  the  audience, 
and  though  in  the  possession  of  all  the  first  line  of  char- 
acters, yet  she  never  thought  it  improper,  or  a  degradation 
of  her  consequence,  to  constantly  play  the  Queen  in  Ham- 
let, Lady  Ann  in  Richard  III.,  and  Lady  Percy  in  Henry 
IV.  ;  parts  which  are  mentioned  as  insults  in  the  country, 
if  offered  to  a  lady  of  consequence. 

"  Read  this,  ye  heroes  and  heroines  I  She  also  cheer- 
fully acted  Hennione,  or  Andromache;  Lady  Pliant,  or 
Lady  Touchwood  ;  Lady  Sadlife,  or  Lady  Dainty ;  Angel- 
ica, or  Mrs.  Frail ;  and  several  others  alternately,  as  best 
suited  the  interest  of  her  manager. 

"  One  evening,  some  few  weeks  after  my  late  mentioned 


152  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

disgrace,  Mrs.  Woffington  was  acting  Lady  Dainty ;  I 
ventured,  after  much  hesitation,  to  say  to  Mrs.  Barrington, 
I  thought  Mrs.  Woffington  looked  beautiful — Mrs.  Barring- 
ton  tossed  up  her  head  and  said,  that  was  no  news,  as  she 
looked  so  every  night;  at  which  she  and  Mrs.  Vincent 
laughed  :  this  occasioned  Mrs.  Woffington  to  turn  her 
head,  and  condescendingly  ask,  what  they  were  smiling  at. 
Mrs.  Barrington  replied  that  the  young  man  was  saying 
that  Lady  Dainty  looked  beautiful  that  night,  and  added, 
she  had  told  him  there  needed  not  that  information,  as  she 
always  looked  so.  Mrs.  Woffington,  viewing  me  disdain- 
fully, cried,  'Poor  creature!'  'O  God!'  says  I,  'what 
shall  I  do  for  bread  !  I  had  better  exhibit  in  a  barn,  but 
am,  not  sure  if  I  can  even  get  that  situation.'  My  only 
comfort  was  my  acquaintance  with  the  facetious  Ned  Shu- 
ter;  it  grew  soon  to  a  strong  friendship,  for  he  took  me  to 
all  his  parties,  and  that  made  my  time  glide  more  pleas- 
antly. 

"Unfit  for  the  stage,  what  could  I  do?  My  mother's 
existence  was  procured  by  the  sale  or  pawning  every  trifle 
that  could  raise  a  few  shillings ;  and  she,  trembling  to  view 
the  darkened  prospect  when  the  last  resources  were  ex- 
pended, compelled  me  to  wait  on  Mr.  Rich  once  more, 
and  solicit  him  to  retain  me  on  any  trifling  salary  for  the 
ensuing  year ;  but  I  received  a  short  and  peremptory  '  NO ! 
You  are  unfit  for  the  stage,  Muster  Whittington,  and  I 
won't  larn  you — you  may  go,  Muster  Whittington ;'  and 
he  stroked  his  favorite  cat. 

"Summer  did  not  promise  me  better  than  the  winter 
had  done ;  for  with  my  bad  reception  I  could  not  get  a 
recommendation  or  probability  of  any  engagement  what- 
ever even  in  the  country.  Monday,  May  17,  1757,  'As 
You  Like  It'  was  acted  at  Covent  Garden,  for  the  benefit 
of  Mr.  Anderson,  Mr.  Wignel,  and  a  Mad.  Gondou.  I 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.      153 

was  standing  near  the  wing  as  Mrs.  Woffington  in  Rosa- 
lind, and  Mrs.  Vincent  in  Celia,  were  going  on  the  stage 
in  the  first  act.  Mrs.  Woffington  ironically  said  she  was 
glad  to  have  that  opportunity  of  congratulating  me  on  my 
stage  success ;  and  did  not  doubt  but  such  merit  would 
insure  me  an  engagement  the  following  winter.  I  bowed. 
but  made  her  no  answer — I  knew  her  dislike  to  me,  and 
was  humiliated  sufficiently,  and  needed  not  any  slight  to 
sink  me  lower.  For  then,  and  not  till  then,  adversity  had 
taught  me  to  know  myself.  She  went  through  Rosalind 
for  four  acts  without  my  perceiving  she  was  in  the  least 
disordered,  but  in  the  fifth  she  complained  of  great  indis- 
position. I  offered  her  my  arm,  the  which  she  graciously 
accepted  ;  I  thought  she  looked  softened  in  her  behavior, 
and  had  less  of  the  hauteur.  When  she  came  off  at  the 
quick  change  of  dress,  she  again  complained  of  being  ill ; 
but  got  accoutred  and  returned  to  finish  the  part,  and  pro- 
nounced in  the  epilogue  speech,  "  If  it  be  true  that  good 
wine  needs  no  bush — it  is  as  true  that  a  good  play  needs 
no  epilogue,'  &c.,  &c.  But  when  arrived  at  'If  I  were 
among  you  I  would  kiss  as  many  of  you  as  had  beards  that 
pleased  me,'  her  voice  broke,  she  faltered,  endeavored  to 
go  on,  but  could  not  proceed — then  in  a  voice  of  tremor 
screamed,  'O  God!  O  God!'  tottered  to  the  stage  door 
speechless,  where  she  was  caught.  The  audience  of  course 
applauded  till  she  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  sank  into 
awful  looks  of  astonishment,  both  young  and  old,  before 
and  behind  the  curtain,  to  see  one  of  the  most  handsome 
women  of  the  age,  a  favorite  principal  actress,  and  who 
had  for  several  seasons  given  high  entertainment,  struck 
so  suddenly  by  the  hand  of  death  in  such  a  situation  of 
time  and  place,  and  in  her  prime  of  life,  being  then  about 
forty-four.  She  was  given  over  that  night,  and  for  several 
days ;  but  so  far  recovered  as  to  linger  till  near  the  year 
G* 


I54  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

1760,  but  existed  as  a  mere  skeleton;  sans  teeth,  sans 
eyes,  sans  taste,  sans  everything.  Vain  is  Beauty's  gaudy 
flower!" 

II. 

"  A  Mrs.  Wardale,  anxious  for  my  situation  and  welfare, 
had  prevailed  on  the  Honorable  Miss  Foley,  sister  to  Lord 
Foley,  to  ask  the  favor  of  a  letter  of  recommendation  from 
her  intimate  friend,  Lord  Mansfield,  to  Mr.  Garrick  ;  which 
his  Lordship  immediately  complied  with  :  so  with  those 
credentials  I  was  to  proceed  on  a  visit  the  next  day,  and 
which  I  assure  the  reader  seemed  to  require  more  than 
common  fortitude.  I  marched  up  and  down  Southampton 
Street  three  or  four  times  before  I  dared  rap  at  this  great 
man's  door,  as  fearing  instant  admission  might  follow  ;  or, 
what  appeared  to  me  almost  as  dreadful,  if  graciously  ad- 
mitted, how  I  should  be  able  to  walk,  move,  or  speak 
before  him.  However,  the  rap  was  at  last  given,  and  the 
deed  was  done  past  all  retreating.  '  Is  Mr.  Garrick  at 
home?'  'Yes.'  Then  delivering  the  letter  from  Miss 
Foley,  with  an  inclosed  one  from  Lord  Mansfield,  and  after 
waiting  in  a  parlor  for  about  ten  minutes,  I  was  ordered  to 
approach.  Mr.  Garrick  glanced  his  scrutinizing  eye  first 
at  me,  then  at  the  letter,  and  so  alternately ;  at  last — '  Well, 
sir — Hey  ! — What,  now  you  are  a  stage  candidate  ?  Well, 
sir,  let  me  have  a  taste  of  your  quality/  I,  distilled  almost 
to  jelly  with  my  fear,  attempted  a  speech  from  Richard, 
and  another  from  Essex ;  which  he  encouraged  by  observ- 
ing, I  was  so  much  frightened,  that  he  could  hot  form  any 
judgment  of  my  abilities;  but  assured  me,  it  was  not  a 
bad  omen,  as  fear  was  by  no  means  a  sign  of  want  of  merit, 
but  often  the  contrary.  We  then  chatted  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  I  felt  myself  more  easy,  and  requested  leave  to  repeat  a 
few  speeches  in  imitation  of  the  then  principal  stage  repre- 
sentatives. 'Nay — now,'  says  Garrick,  'sir,  you  must  take 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSOX.      155 

care  of  this,  for  I  used  to  call  myself  the  first  at  this  busi- 
ness.' I  luckily  began  with  an  imitation  of  Foote.  It  is 
difficult  here  to  determine  whether  Garrick  hated  or  feared 
Foote  the  most ;  sometimes  one,  sometimes  the  other  was 
predominant ;  but  from  the  attention  of  a  few  minutes,  his 
looks  brightened — the  glow  of  his  countenance  transfused 
to  mine,  and  he  eagerly  desired  a  repetition  of  the  same 
speech.  I  was  animated,  forgot  Garrick  was  present,  and 
spoke  at  perfect  ease.  '  Hey,  now !  Now — what — all/  says 
Garrick — '  How — really  this — this — is — /'with  his  usual  hes- 
itation and  repetition  of  words) — Why — well — well — Do 
call  on  me  again  on  Monday  at  eleven,  and  you  may  depend 
upon  every  assistance  in  my  power.  I  will  see  my  brother 
manager,  Mr.  Lacey,  to-day,  and  let  you  know  the  result. ' 

"  I  now  really  thought  Fortune  had  done  with  torment- 
ing me.  Honored  not  only  with  the  approbation,  but 
friendship,  of  that  great  man,  I  was  elated  into  a  degree 
of  rapture  I  had  not  experienced  for  a  long  time  :  and  in 
truth  I  fancied  that,  should  the  infallible  Pope  Garrick  quit 
the  stage,  either  by  death,  choice,  or  accident,  I  should  in 
a  few  seasons  be  able  to  supply  the  vacant  chair :  so  light 
is  vanity  !  I  did  not  walk,  but  flew  to  my  lodgings,  where 
my  poor  anxious  mother  sat  trembling  for  the  event.  The 
noise  I  made  in  running  up  the  stairs,  and  my  countenance 
on  entering  the  room,  denoted  in  full  evidence  that  she 
was  to  receive  good — not  bad  news.  On  my  relating  to 
her  Mr.  Garrick's  kind  behavior,  and  his  assurance  of  serv- 
ing me,  she  concluded  her  son  Tate's  fortune  was  made  : 
she  blessed  Garrick !  she  blessed  me  !  and  we  were  both 
for  that  day  perfectly  happy. 

"  Mine  and  my  mother's  dinner  that  day  (the  25th  of 
May,  1757)  was  most  luxuriant;  and  I  can  affirm  that 
neither  his  Majesty  nor  any  of  his  subjects  dined  with 
better  appetite  or  greater  happiness. 


156  THE   ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

"  On  the  Monday,  I  negligently  slid  up  Southampton 
Street,  not  with  the  tottering  attendant  fear  of  the  pre- 
ceding week.  I  was  spruced  out,  knocked  at  the  door 
with  a  degree  of  assurance,  was  instantly  admitted,  and  not 
only  found  Mr.  Garrick  alone,  but  as  soon  as  he  saw  me, 
he  expressed  a  wish  of  impatience  for  my  promised  visit ; 
said  he  had  heard  a  most  favorable  account  of  my  mother, 
of  whom  he  had  made  an  inquiry,  and  should  be  glad  for 
the  sake  of  so  deserving  a  woman  to  assist  me  to  the  utmost 
of  his  power.  This  was  a  cordial  to  my  heart ;  and  I  be- 
lieve it  may  be  made  a  certain  observation,  that  whenever 
young  or  old  wait  on  a  superior  as  a  dependent  character 
he  or  she  is  anxiously  tremulous  until  satisfied  whether  the 
grant  can  be  obtained  or  not.  But  now  all  appeared  to 
me  in  a  happy  train.  Mr.  Garrick  said,  'Young  gentle- 
man, I  have  seen  Mr.  Lacey,  and  we  are  determined  to 
put  you  on  the  books  at  thirty  shillings  per  week  the  en- 
suing season.  I  will  think  of  some  line  of  characters  for 
you  to  perform  on  the  stage.  My  time  is  short,  and  not 
at  my  disposal  this  morning,  as  I  must 'be  at  Hampton  to 
dinner ;  therefore,  as  I  am  on  the  wing,  do  oblige  me  with 
a  repetition  of  what  you  recited  last  Saturday.'  I  readily 
complied,  and  executed  it  with  spirit.  From  the  imitation 
of  Foote  I  proceeded  with  great  alacrity  to  several  others ; 
and  when  I  came  to  those  of  Mr.  Barry  and  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton,  as  Macbeth  and  Lady  Macbeth,  I  was  obliged  to  stop, 
he  seemed  so  truly  entertained.  I  thought  it  very  com- 
ical, and  that  the  joke  might  not  be  lost  I  laughed  too ; 
but  on  the  merriment  ceasing,  I  perceived  a  concealed 
third  laughter — the  Lady  Teazle  behind  the  screen,  which 
greatly  puzzled  me;  when  on  a  sudden  a  green  cloth 
double  door  flew  open,  which  I  found  led  to  a  little  break- 
fast parlor,  and  discovered  a  most  elegant  lady — no  less  a 
personage  than  Mrs.  Garrick,  who  had,  it  seems,  been  pur- 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKIXSOX. 


157 


posely  posted  there  for  her  secret  opinion  of  my  imitations 
of  Foote;  as  Mr.  Garrick  always  affected  to  pay  great 
compliment  to  her  judgment  and  opinion,  and  I  really 
believe  not  all  acted  complaisance,  but  founded  on  real 
esteem.  But  like  his  brethren  mortals,  he  had  his  frailties. 

"  Mrs.  Garrick  apologized  for  her  rudeness  and  intrusion 
— confessed  she  had  taken  possession  of  that  snug  spot  un- 
observed, at  the  desire  of  Mr.  Garrick,  as  from  his  account 
of  my  imitations  on  the  Saturday,  she  expected  to  be  much 
gratified ;  but  when  she  heard  the  tones  of  Mrs.  Woffing- 
ton,  the  ridicule  was  so  strongly  pointed  that  it  was  not  in 
her  power  to  restrain  from  laughter,  by  the  pleasure  and 
great  satisfaction  she  had  received.  If  it  had  happened 
otherwise,  Mrs.  Mouse  would  not  have  appeared,  but  kept 
snug  in  her  hole.  Perhaps  female  prejudice  here  might 
operate  in  my  favor,  as  Mr.  Garrick  had  previous  to  his 
marriage  with  Madam  Violette,  paid  his  devoirs  to  Mrs. 
Woffington. 

"  Before  I  took  my  leave,  I  acquainted  our  Roscius  with 
my  intention  relative  to  Maidstone,  which  he  approved, 
and  said  practice  would  acquire  me  freedom  and  ease  on 
the  stage — it  was  what  he  had  done  previous  to  his  public 
appearance  in  London ;  but  the  chief  lesson  he  would  give 
to  a  young  man  trying  his  fortune  on  the  stage  was  sobriety. 
I  made  my  bow  and  departed,  not  doubting  but  when  the 
autumn  approached,  I  should  read  my  name  in  the  news- 
papers, and  (as  the  Apprentice  says)  stuck  in  large  capitals, 

« The  part  of  OTHELLO,  by  a  Young  Gentle 


The  young  fellow  was  a  free  and  mischievous  creature 
who  had  been  spoiled  by  the  flatteries  and  laughter  of 
friends.  He  was  now  as  much  elated  as  he  had  been  de- 
pressed ;  and  probably  had  been  cleverly  taking  off  his  new 
patron,  or  giving  some  grotesque  description  of  the  inter- 
14 


158  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

view  ;  for,  on  the  season  opening,  he  was  somewhat  taken 
down  by  the  following  summary  treatment. 

"  Early  in  September  1757,  Drury  Lane  opened,  and  I 
attended,  as  being  then  enrolled  on  the  royal  list  of  his 
Majesty's  company  of  comedians.  On  the  rehearsal  of 
'  Romeo  and  Juliet,'  I  was  summoned  on  the  stage  by  Cross 
the  prompter,  who  said  he  had  orders  from  Mr.  Garrick  that 
I  should  wait  as  a  Torch  Bearer  in  the  last  act,  and  also  as 
a  Waiting  Gentleman  in  every  play.  On  which  Mr.  Gar- 
rick  advanced,  and,  before  the  company,  said  aloud,  '  This, 
sir,  is  my  command — and  if  not  complied  with  I  shall  take 
your  coat  off  and  do  the  business  myself;  and  you,  sir,  will 
immediately  be  dismissed  my  theatre.'  There  certainly 
was  a  severity  in  this ;  for  though  I  stood  astonished, 
grieved,  and  petrified  at  this  sudden  appointment,  I  had 
not  refused  ;  and  therefore  the  pointed  manner  in  which  he 
spoke,  was  tyranny,  in  a  degree  I  never  then  had  seen 
exercised  without  provocation." 

III. 

"  The  theatre  being  for  the  first  month  opened  three 
nights  in  a  week,  my  salary  was  only  fifteen  shillings  as 
pay-house  play,  and  when  got  to  four  nights,  merely  twenty 
shillings  ;  but  that  pittance  was  too  material  an  object  for 
me  to  think  of  relinquishing.  I  waited  (as  it  is  termed)  in 
the  'Mourning  Bride' — the  funeral  procession  in  'Romeo 
and  Juliet' — '  Macbeth,'  and  twice  rode  a  hobby  horse  in 
the  field  of  battle,  when  Garrick  acted  Bayes.  The  last 
week  of  Mr.  Foote's  playing  in  Drury-Lane,  previous  to 
his  intended  trip  to  Ireland,  he  was  accidentally  with  Gar- 
rick. The  conversation,  as  I  was  informed,  by  chance 
turned  on  imitation.  Garrick  said,  "  Egad,  Foote  !  there 
is  a  young  fellow  engaged  with  me,  who  I  really  think  is 
superior  to  either  of  us  at  mimicry.  I  used  to  think  myself 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.     I59 

well  at  it,  but  I  actually  give  him  the  preference :  he  has 
tried  to  resemble  me,  but  that  will  not  do ;  though  Mrs. 
Garrick  says  she  is  sure  he  will  be  like  me.'  'D — n  it!' 
says  Foote,  'I  should  like  to  hear  him.'  Holland,  with 
Garrick's  approbation,  came  immediately  to  inquire  for  me. 
I  was  soon  found  in  the  green-room,  and  escorted  to  the 
manager's  cabinet,  assuring  me  that  Mr.  Garrick  wanted 
to  see  me  on  particular  business.  My  heart  panted  with 
fear,  doubt,  and  hope,  on  this  unexpected  summons.  After 
an  awkward  entrance,  and  a  silence  of  a  few  minutes,  my 
suspense  was  eased  by  Mr.  Garrick  very  good-naturedly 
saying,  that  he  had  spoken  well  of  me  to  Mr.  Foote,  and 
desired  I  would  satisfy  that  gentleman  with  a  taste  of  my 
quality  such  as  first  struck  my  fancy ;  adding,  that  he  ex- 
pected I  would  do  my  best  in  order  to  convince  his  good 
friend,  Mr.  Foote,  that  his  assertions  of  my  merit  were  not 
exaggerated.  I  complied,  and  (as  the  phrase"  is)  took  off 
several  performers — Barry,  Sparks,  WoflSngton,  Ridout, 
Sheridan,  &c. — received  high  encomiums  and  thanks — 
made  my  bow  and  retired  from  the  august  assembly. 

"  The  next  day  my  friend,  Mr.  Owenson,  who  was  inti- 
mate with  Foote,  waited  on  me  with  that  gentleman's  com- 
pliments, intimating,  that  he  was  going  to  Dublin  for  a  few 
weeks  in  five  or  six  days'  time.  He  had  observed  Mr. 
Garrick  thought  me  only  fit  for  his  Hobby  Horse  in  the 
'  Rehearsal,'  and  if  I  wished  to  be  released  from  such 
tyranny,  he  would  be  glad  of  my  company  to  Ireland  at 
his  own  expense,  and  he  would  fix  me  on  genteel  terms 
with  Mr.  Sheridan ;  that  I  should  appear  in  Othello,  and 
he  would  act  lago.  This  was  a  cheering  cordial  elixir  to 
my  drooping  spirits  and  to  my  still  more  drooping  pocket. 
On  the  evening  I  met  my  Master — Garrick— at  the  theatre, 
who  confirmed  the  above  treaty,  and  said  he  was  glad  of 
an  opportunity  to  serve  me,  and  hoped  it  would  turn  out 


160  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE   STAGE. 

advantageous.  My  equipment  was  poorly  provided ;  my 
old  black  was  my  only  suit,  a  small  pair  of  bags  easily  con- 
tained my  wardrobe.  My  mother  dreaded  this  long  voyage, 
and  being  used  to  vexation  and  crosses,  experience  made 
her  give  me  but  little  hopes  from  Irish  hospitality,  or  the 
appearance  of  a  shabby,  distressed  lad  soliciting  favors. 

"From  lodging,  livelihood,  and  support,  all  that  my 
mother  could  spare  to  give  me  to  supply  my  empty  purse 
with  was  six  shillings ;  but  luckily  Mrs.  Wardale,  the  lady 
of  Carlisle  before  mentioned,  hearing  of  my  journey,  and 
knowing  mine  and  my  mother's  inability,  presented  me  with 
two  guineas.  I  took  leave  of  my  affectionate  parent,  met 
Mr.  Foote  at  the  Bedford  Arms,  and  in  one  hour  after  set 
off  with  him  in  a  post-chaise,  and  his  servant  on  horseback. 
We  only  traveled  that  night  to  his  little  cottage  at  Elstree, 
in  Hertfordshire.  Two  days  after  that,  we  dined  at  Kitty 
Keney's  at  West  Chester,  and  the  following  day  went  with 
Capt.  Bonfoy,  who  was  then  commander  of  the  Royal 
Yacht,  for  Park  Gate,  as  the  Captain  said  he  would  sail 
that  afternoon.  Here  we  were  detained  with  several  persons 
of  fashion,  who  had  been  impatiently  attending  on  the  ca- 
price of  the  wind.  Mr.  Hill,  an  elderly  gentleman,  Lord 
Macartney,  Mr.  Leeson,  now  Lord  Milltown,  and  several 
others ;  we  all  went  on  board,  but  all  returned,  as  the  wind 
continued  obstinate.  We  all  messed  together ;  for  Foote's 
company,  as  he  was  well  acquainted  with  each,  was  the  only 
treat  that  truly  dreary  place  Park  Gate  could  afford.  Our 
patience  being  exhausted,  it  was  unanimously  agreed  that 
we  should  proceed  to  Holyhead  ;  horses  were  hired.  This 
was  early  in  November,  and  was  not  pleasing  to  me,  who 
had  never  ridden  twenty  miles  on  horseback  in  my  life; 
however  there  was  no  alternative,  as  I  was  become  a  de- 
pendent traveler,  and  must  submit  to  follow.  I  thought 
we  were  all  to  have  set  off  together ;  they  went  at  seven 


THE  ADVENTURES   OF  TATE    WILKINSON.     161 

o'clock  in  the  morning,  requesting  Foote's  company  at 
each  house  they  stopped  at ;  but  Foote  and  myself  remained  • 
behind,  and  on  my  asking  him  the  reason  of  his  delay,  he 
answered,  that  it  was  a  rule  of  his,  and  worth  my  observa- 
tion, that  whenever  he  met  with  persons  of  distinction  and 
fortune  on  the  road  traveling  to  small  inns  (as  was,  and  is 
the  case  on  the  Welsh  roads),  he  made  it  a  rule  always  to 
be  half  a  day  behind  or  before  them ;  as,  with  all  their 
politeness,  they  expected  the  best  accommodations ;  or  if 
they  were  so  kind  as  to  offer  you  a  preference,  you  could 
not  in  policy  or  good  manners  accept  such  an  offer ;  there- 
fore you  never  could  on  such  a  journey  be  well  suited  or 
attended,  unless  by  being  the  stage,  at  least,  before  or  after 
them ;  and  if  going  to  another  inn,  the  landlady  of  the 
neglected  house  would  pique  herself  on  her  behavior,  to 
convince  her  guests  they  had  paid  the  compliment  of 
preference  not  to  her  only,  but  for  their  own  comfort  and 
advantage. 

"Holyhead  in  Wales  is  eighty-seven  miles  from  West 
Chester;  there  we  were  detained  again  some  days,  and 
strange  but  true,  the  high  living  with  the  persons  at  that 
place,  and  a  severe  cold,  had  kept  me  ill  in  bed  most  part 
of  that  day ;  the  wind  changed,  but  it  changed  to  a  violent 
storm,  and  at  nine  at  night,  all  dark  and  dismal,  did  we 
roll  in  the  boat  belonging  to  the  packet,  over  waves  most 
dreary  to  behold ;  for  the  whiteness  of  the  breakers  shone 
double  from  the  darkness  of  the  night.  When  handed  into 
the  packet,  I  asked  for  a  bed ;  but  they  were  all  secured, 
not  even  one  for  Mr.  Foote,  as  plenty  of  cash  from  the 
great  people  had  made  that  request  impossible  to  be  com- 
plied with.  The  cabin  was  wedged  like  the  black-hole  at 
Calcutta.  The  tumultuous  moving  of  the  ship  soon  made 
my  inquiries  after  a  bed  of  down  quite  needless,  for  I  sank 
on  the  boards,  where  my  poverty  bags  were  my  only  pillow, 
14* 


1 62  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

and  there  I  lay  tossed  in  the  most  convulsive  sickness  that 
'can  be  imagined.  I  have  seen  many  suffer  by  this  sea 
malady,  but  never,  I  verily  think,  such  an  object  of  com- 
miseration as  myself.  The  storm  increased,  but  the  wind 
was  fair  for  Ireland ;  as  to  death,  I  was  so  truly  sick,  that 
I  was  very  indifferent  whether  I  sank  or  swam.  Mr.  Foote 
was  tolerably  well,  and  walking  most  of  the  night  from 
place  to  place. 

"  Thank  God,  we  arrived  safe  in  Dublin  Bay  about  twelve 
o'clock,  and  by  one  were  taken  in  a  Dunleary  hoy  to  Dublin 
Quay;  a  coach  conveyed  us  to  a  tavern  in  College  Green, 
where  we  were  regaled.  I  say  we,  though  I  continued  very 
sick  and  much  out  of  order.  In  about  an  hour  Mr.  Foote 
went  to  the  lodgings  provided  for  him,  and  left  me  to  take 
care  of  myself.  I  inquired  for  a  hotel,  and  was  directed  to 
one  on  Essex  Quay,  to  which  place  I  took  coach ;  where, 
overpowered  with  illness,  sickness,  and  fatigue,  I  went  to 
bed  and  lay  till  Monday  noon,  but  in  a  comfortless  state. 
I  rang  the  bell  for  breakfast,  but  it  did  not  afford  relief; 
and  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  crawled  to  the 
house  I  remembered  to  have  left  the  day  before  in  College 
Green,  where  I  had  soup,  chicken,  and  wine,  and  after 
sitting  full  two  hours  fancied  myself  better,  owing  to  the 
momentary  spirits  the  wine  had  given  me.  Paying  for  my 
repast,  I  inquired  of  the  waiter  where -Mrs.  Chaigneau  lived  ; 
he  replied  just  over  the  way.  This  was  agreeable  intelli- 
gence, as  indeed  that  was  the  family,  the  reader  I  hope  will 
kindly  recollect,  I  so  particularly  mentioned  in  the  first  part 
of  my  history.  Then  my  fluttering  heart  hoped  welcome  to 
the  poor,  the  orphan,  and  the  stranger;  next  the  appre- 
hension of  a  rebuff  occurred,  but  distress  of  situation  pushed 
me  on,  and  to  the  house,  as  directed,  I  went.  When  I  had 
advanced  with  trembling  and  tottering  steps  to  the  corner 
palace,  and  inquiring  if  Mrs.  Chaigneau  was  at  home,  I  was 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE    WILKIXSON. 


163 


answered  with  an  affirmative.  I  desired  the  servant  to  ac- 
quaint his  mistress  that  a  person  from  England  requested  to 
speak  with  her,  and  after  waiting  a  few  minutes  (which  my 
impatience  doubled)  a  thin-looking  lady  entered  the  room, 
but  I  could  not  recollect  a  feature,  or  any  likeness  to  re- 
semble the  form  I  expected  to  behold ;  but  supposed  time 
or  illness  might  have  made  heavy  inroads  on  the  brittle 
frame.  With  the  utmost  agitation  I  presumed  to  inquire 
if  her  name  was  Chaigneau.  The  lady  answered,  'Yes.' 
I  then  ventured  to  pronounce,  '  Madam,  I  flatter  myself  you 
recollect  me  when  you  were  in  England  ;  my  name  is  Wil- 
kinson, son  of  the  late  Doctor  Wilkinson  of  the  Savoy.' 
She  answered,  'Indeed,  sir,  you  are  mistaken.'  This  was 
a  thunder-stroke,  as  my  fears  intrepreted  it  a  willful  dis- 
claiming of  her  knowledge  of  me ;  but  I  was  after  a  pause 
relieved  by  her  looking  serious  and  repeating  to  herself — 
'  Wilkinson  !  Wilkinson  !' — and  suddenly  saying  '  O,  young 
gentleman  !  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  believe  I  can  now  clear 
up  this  mfstake,  in  which  we  both  are  at  present  involved. 
— I  have  often  heard  your  father  and  mother  mentioned  in 
terms  of  the  highest  regard  by  my  brother  and  sister  Chaig- 
neau. You,  as  a  stranger,  have  made  a  mistake  as  to  the 
house.  I  am  married  to  Mr.  John  Chaigneau,  brother  to 
Mr.  William  Chaigneau,  and  to  whose  house  you  have  been 
wrongly  directed.  They  live  in  Abbey  Street.  I  not  know- 
ing the  way,  she  requested  her  servant  might  call  a  coach 
for  me,  which  was  instantly  done  (as  there  was  then,  and 
always  is  a  stand  of  coaches  in  College  Green).  I  was 
driven  to  Abbey  Street,  and  on  my  road  over  Essex  Bridge 
was  vastly  pleased  at  seeing  the  number  of  lamps,  sedan 
chairs,  carriages,  hackney  coaches,  footmen  with  flambeaux, 
&c.,  as  it  appeared  to  resemble  another  London.  When 
arrived  at  Abbey  Street,  and  the  awful  rap  was  given,  I  was 
not  only,  from  frequent  misfortunes  and  disappointments, 


1 64  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

all  flutter,  but  found  myself  not  well ;  yet  I  gave  myself  the 
comfort  to  attribute  it  to  fancied  illness,  proceeding  from 
anxiety,  distress,  and  unaccustomed  fatigue  ;  and  therefore 
hoped  it  would  go  off.  The  first  answer  to  my  inquiry  at 
Mr.  William  Chaigneau's  door  from  the  servant  was,  that 
he  could  not  tell  whether  either  his  master  or  mistress  were 
at  home  or  not,  but  would  go  and  see ;  he  soon  returned 
with  an  answer  more  potent  than  the  first — that  they  were 
both  at  home,  and  what  was  more  fortunate,  they  were  with- 
out company.  I  had  no  sooner  entered  the  room  where 
they  were  sitting,  than — than  what  ? — why,  to  proceed  re- 
quires the  bestoi  novel  pens  to  present,  fulfill,  and  do  service 
to  the  scene  that  followed.  This  generous  Mr.  William 
Chaigneau  and  wife  were  on  the  list  of  the  few  instances 
where 

1  Mutual  temper  with  unclouded  ray, 
Could  make  to-morrow  welcome  as  to-day.' 

"Their  pleasures  were  the  same — their  affections  were 
the  same.  Their  instantaneous  recollection  of  me — the 
great  intimacy  between  the  families — my  father's  death  and 
calamities  being  so  lately  public,  and  now  refreshed  to 
their  memory,  revived  the  idea  of  their  own  distress  from 
the  loss  of  their  darling  child,  the  infant-marriage  between 
me  and  that  daughter,  my  present  assured,  unfortunate, 
helpless  situation,  with  a  look  of  desponding  hope  depend- 
ent on  their  feelings,  all  collected  rushed  on  their  alternate 
sudden  thoughts  with  such  quick  transitions,  as  made  them 
all  combined  too  mighty  for  Mrs.  Chaigneau's  tender 
spirits ;  indeed  so  powerfully,  that  the  fictitious  distress  of 
Lady  Randolph  on  the  stage  was  by  no  means  equal  to  her 
poignant  sense  of  my  misery  and  situation  ;  and  it  was  act- 
ually some  time  before  she  could  recover  herself  with  any 
degree  of  composure  to  inquire  what  had  brought  me  there, 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE    WILKINSON.      165 

or  what  could  be  done  to  serve  me.  Mr.  Chaigneau  was 
also  greatly  agitated  ;  but  not  to  so  extravagant  a  degree  as 
my  good  benefactress,  as  she  afterwards  proved  to  the 
utmost  extent.  After  a  little  composure,  and  my  full  rela- 
tion of  what  had  happened  to  my  mother  and  myself  since 
the  fatal  marriage  act  passed,  a  comfortable  supper  was  set 
on  the  table.  After  which  pleasing  ceremony,  they  assured 
me  that  every  exertion  in  their  power  and  all  their  friends 
and  connections,  I  might  as  much  depend  upon  as  if  the 
welfare  of  their  own  son  was  the  person  whose  interest  they 
were  to  plead  for. 

"  During  a  short  interval  I  felt  elated  beyond  myself,  the 
transition  was  so  wonderful :  but,  alas !  how  fleeting  are 
human  joys  as  to  pain,  hope,  or  sorrow  !  For  soon  after 
this  pleasing  unforeseen  sensation  of  rapture,  I  suddenly 
sank  into  an  heavy  feverish  languor,  not  in  my  power  to 
uphold.  Mrs.  Chaigneau  exclaimed,  '  My  God  !  Tate  is 
ill!'  Her  words  were  prophetic;  I  wished  and  tried  to 
shake  it  off,  but  all  in  vain ; — disorder  and  delirium  grew 
too  powerful,  my  head  felt  dreadfully  deranged.  My  real 
friends,  in  every  sense  of  the  word,  were  alarmed  ;  Mrs. 
Chaigneau  declared  she  could  not  permit  me  by  any  means 
to  return  to  the  hotel  in  such  a  state  of  apparent  illness  as 
I  then  seemed  to  labor  under.  They  sent  to  the  next 
door,  engaged  a  comfortable  lodging  for  me,  and  provided 
me  with  hock-wine,  whey,  and  such  accommodation  as  they 
thought  immediately  necessary.  The  ensuing  day,  instead 
of  finding  myself  relieved,  I  was  seized  most  dangerously 
by  an  outrageous  miliary  fever. 

"  In  that  outrageous  fever  did  I  continue,  and  in  a  truly 
lamentable  state,  with  a  complication  of  distraction  and 
agony,  for  near  three  weeks;  blisters  on  my  ankles,  and 
every  physical  torture  to  increase  my  miseries.  •  Mr.  Chaig- 
neau often  used  to  joke  and  say,  what  an  expensive  guest  I 


1 66  THE  ROMANCE   OF   THE  STAGE. 

was  to  him  for  his  old  hock ;  the  quantity  I  drank  in  whey, 
by  his  account,  was  incredible.  However  Providence,  aid- 
ing my  youth,  brought  me  once  more  into  the  world ;  and 
here  I  must  not  omit  my  sincere  and  grateful  acknowledg- 
ments to  God.  For,  good  reader,  will  you  believe  it,  that 
all  this  time  of  my  severe  suffering,  notwithstanding  Mr. 
Foote  must  have  heard  I  had  left  the  hotel  and  tavern  with 
evident  marks  of  indisposition,  he  never  once  (to  the  dis- 
grace of  Christianity  be  it  asserted  !)  made  inquiry  whether 
I  was  living  or  dead  ;  or  if  living,  whether  I  had  decent 
necessaries. 

"  Before  I  was  able  to  go  abroad,  or  even  to  leave  my 
apartments,  I  sent  my  compliments  to  Mr.  Foote,  to  ac- 
quaint him  where  I  was ;  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Chaigneau  were 
so  offended  at  such  brutality  of  behavior  towards  me,  that 
neither  of  them  had  given  him  any  intelligence  concerning 
me.  Mr.  Foote  on  my  information,  waited  on  Mr.  Chaig- 
neau, and  by  way  of  apology,  said  he  could  not  see  me  for 
three  or  four  days  for  fear  of  catching  the  infection  from 
the  fever — professed  himself  anxious  to  supply  my  wants, 
which  he  was  informed  was  at  that  time  quite  unnecessary. 
After  that  he  waited  on  me  as  my  most  anxious  friend,  and 
in  about  three  weeks  I  recovered  so  fast,  by  the  help  of  my 
good  nurses,  that  I  dined  every  day  with  my  preserving 
angels  at  the  next  door;  was  attended  every  noon  with 
jellies,  &c.  ;  and  what  was  more  extraordinary,  had  my 
chariot  every  morning  at  the  door  to  take  my  daily  airing. 
O  gemini  !  a  coach  ! 

"As  soon  as  I  was  able  to  be  taken  by  my  patrons  a 
visiting,  an  elegant  suit  of  clothes  was  provided  for  me, 
that  I  might  be  a  credit,  and  not  by  my  thread-bare  appear- 
ance disgrace  either  my  friends  or  myself.  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Chaigneau  introduced  me  to  all  their  acquaintance ;  nor 
could  they  be  pleased  more,  than  by  any  act  of  kindness 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.     167 

that  was  bestowed  on  me.  Their  connections  were  par- 
ticularly numerous,  Mr.  William  Chaigneau  being  principal 
agent  to  most  of  the  regiments  on  the  Irish  establishment, 
and  was  consequently  universally  known,  and  likewise 
respected. 

"  All  the  families  in  Ireland  with  whom  my  father  and 
mother  had  formerly  been  intimate  in  London,  proved  by 
innumerable  acts  of  generosity  and  true  zeal  for  my  wel- 
fare, that  friendship  is  sometimes  more  than  a  name.  On 
my  visiting  abroad,  I  was  soon  invited  to  Lord  Forbes's  in 
Stephen's  Green,  also  to  the  Kellys',  Alderman  and  Mrs. 
Forbes's,  Acheson's,  Collage's,  John  Chaigneau's,  Coates's, 
Hamilton's,  £c.,  and  received  particular  favor  from  those 
persons,  as  well  as  from  Lord  Clanbrassil,  Lord  Bellaraont, 
Lord  Milltown,  Mr.  Hill,  Miss  Knoxes,  &c.  &c.  At  each 
of  the  above  families',  in  the  full  meaning  of  the  word,  I 
had  a  home,  and  I  never  received  a  cool  look  unless  for 
staying  away,  though  a  favor  may  be  bestowed  with  an  ill 
grace;  and  I  will  beg  leave  here  to  give  an  instance. 
Lord  Forbes  I  had  been  used  to  see  frequently  in  London, 
even  from  the  time  of  my  wearing  frocks;  and  I  am  cer- 
tain his  invitations  in  Dublin  were  intended  most  friendlv, 
and  his  will  was  ever  to  serve  me ;  but  one  day  on  dining 
with  his  Lordship,  when  several  persons  of  quality  were 
invited — the  bottle,  our  sun  of  the  table — after  dinner 
moved  quickly  round,  and  as  the  wine  circulated,  not 
feeling  any  restraint,  and  his  Lordship  not  being  a  stranger 
to  me,  I  very  heartily  smacked  my  lips,  and  said,  '  O  my 
lord,  this  is  excellent  wine !'  On  which  he  paused,  and 
looking  full  at  me  (by  which  means  he  drew  the  attention 
of  the  whole  company),  said,  with  a  satirical  smile,  '  Pray, 
Tate,  what  or  who  has  made  you  a  judge  of  wine  ?  Never 
give  your  judgment  in  company  as  to  wine ;  for  in  a  jxmng 
man  like  you  it  is  not  becoming  or  proper.'  This  effectu- 


1 68  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

ally  silenced  me ;  nay,  it  did  worse  than  that,  for  it  made 
me  feel  my  inferiority,  and  I  was  abashed  and  unhappy  till 
released  that  evening  from  the  company  of  the  great,  and 
which  two  hours  before  had  greatly  elated  me.  .  .  . 

"  Near  Christmas  I  began  to  think  of  making  my  appear- 
ance on  the  stage.  .  .  . 

"  It  was  appointed  for  me  to  appear  the  Monday  follow- 
ing in  Mr.  Foote's  '  Tea,'  in  the  character  of  a  pupil  under 
Mr.  Puzzle,  the  supposed  director  of  a  rehearsal.  Mr.  Puz- 
zle, by  Mr.  Foote.  He  sent  me  a  part  called  Bounce,  but 
which  I  begged,  as  the  time  was  so  short,  to  decline ;  and, 
as  I  did  not  attend  any  rehearsal,  it  was  agreed  that  I  should 
appear  as  Mr.  Wilkinson  (his  pupil)  when  called  upon,  and 
repeat  just  what  I  could  select  to  please  myself — not  any 
regular  character. 

"When  the  night  came,  Lord  Forbes,  Mr.  Chaigneau, 
and  all  my  friends,  went  to  encourage  and  support  me,  and 
engaged  all  they  knew  for  the  same  purpose.  One  lucky 
circumstance  was  my  not  being  known  as  a  performer, 
therefore  I  had  their  wishes  and  pity  in  a  high  degree — 
but  great  fear  of  my  not  being  able  to  succeed.  The  story 
of  my  distressed  situation — the  blazoned  Marriage  Act — • 
my  being  a  young  gentleman — my  illness,  &c.  &c.,  were 
become  topics  of  public  conversation.  As  to  intelligence, 
requested  by  critics  from  the  players  relative  to  myself, 
they  neither  did  nor  could  pronounce,  with  knowledge, 
either  good  or  ill.  But  I  will  rather  suppose  five  out  of  six 
spoke  to  my  disadvantage,*,  from,  the  too  general  depravity  of 
human  nature  ;  as  persons  listen  to  satire  rather  than  praise: 
it  is  more  descriptive,  displays  the  tripping  tongue,  and 


*  This  cynical  remark  will  be  noted  as  showing  knowledge  of  human 
character.  Indeed  all  his  observations  on  the  players'  nature  are  well 
worthy  of  study. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.      X69 

suits  conversation  much  better ;  it  gives  energy  to  the  in- 
formant, and  quick  ears  to  the  languid.  The  bill  ran  thus  : 

'  After  the  PLAY 

Mr.  FOOTE  will  give  TEA. 

Mr.  PUZZLE  (the  Instructor)  Mr.  FOOTE. 

First  PUPIL,  by  a  YOUNG  GENTLEMAN 
(  Who  never  appeared  on  any  Stage  before)? 

By  eight  in  the  evening  I  was  in  full  dress  behind  the 
scenes;  I  had  never  been  there  before;  the  company 
were  all  strangers  to  me.  Not  knowing  how  to  enter  into 
conversation  with  the  performers,  and  being  announced  as 
a  pupil  of  Mr.  Foote's,  I  did  not  receive  any  civility  from 
them ;  for,  if  I  was  a  blockhead,  I  was  not  worth  their 
notice ;  and  if  an  impudent  imitator  or  mimic  of  their  pro- 
fession, bred  by  Mr.  Foote  in  the  same  worthy  art,  I  was, 
in  their  opinion,  a  despicable  intruder.  I  could  conceive 
all  this,  and  certainly  my  situation  on  this  critical  night 
was  not  to  be  envied,  as  their  sentiments,  though  not 
avowed,  were  the  result  of  nature.  I,  on  reflection,  soon 
grew  weary  of  my  solitary  seat  in  the  green-room,  alone 
in  a  crowd  ;  and  between  the  play  and  farce  looked  through 
a  hole  in  the  curtain,  and  beheld  an  awful,  pleasing  sight 
— a  crowded,  splendid  audience — such  as  might  strike  the 
boldest  with  dismay. 

"  The  farce  began,  and  Mr.  Foote  gained  great  applause, 
and  roars  of  laughter  succeeded.  In  the  second  act  my 
time  of  trial  drew  near;  in  about  ten  minutes  I  was  called 
—'Mr.  Wilkinson!  Mr.  Wilkinson!'  Had  I  obeyed  a 
natural  impulse,  I  was  really  so  alarmed  that  I  should  have 
run  away.  But  honor  pricked  me  on — there  was  no  alter- 
native— my  brain  was  a  chaos ;  but  on  I  went,  and  must 
have  made  a  very  sheepish,  timid  appearance,  as,  from  fear, 


170 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


late  illness,  and  apprehension,  I  trembled  like  a  frightened 
clown  in  a  pantomime:  which  Foote  perceiving,  good- 
naturedly  took  me  by  the  hand  and  led  me  forward ;  when 
the  burst  of  applause  was  wonderful,  and  apparently  that 
of  kindness  and  true  benevolence;  but  it  could  not  instantly 
remove  my  timidity,  and  I  had  no  prompter  to  trust  to,  as 
all  depended  on  myself. 

"  Foote  perceiving  I  was  not  fit  for  action,  said  to  his 
two  friends  on  the  stage  (seated  like  Smith  and  Johnson  in 
the  'Rehearsal'):  'This  young  gentleman  is  merely  a 
novice  on  the  stage  ;  he  has  not  yet  been  properly  drilled. 
But  come,  my  young  friend,  walk  across  the  stage;  breathe 
yourself,  and  show  your  figure.'  I  did  so;  the  walk  en- 
couraged me,  and  another  loud  applause  succeeded.  I  felt 
a  glow,  which  seemed  to  say,  'What  have  you  to  fear! 
Now,  or  never.  This  is  the  night  that  either  makes  you  or 
undoes  you  quite.'  And  on  the  applause  being  repeated, 
I  said  to  myself,  '  That  is  as  loud  as  any  I  have  heard  given 
to  Mr.  Garrick.'  I  mustered  up  courage,  and  began  with 
Mr.  Luke  Sparks,  of  London  (brother  to  Isaac  Sparks, 
then  in  Dublin),  in  the  character  of  Capulet :  most  of  the 
gentlemen  in  the  boxes  knew  all  the  London  players,  and 
no  play  in  London  was  so  familiar  then  as  'Romeo  and 
Juliet.'  They  were  universally  struck  with  the  forcible 
manner  of  the  speaking,  and  the  striking  resemblance  of 
the  features ;  a  particular  excellence  in  my  mode  of 
mimicry.  A  gentleman  cried  out,  '  Sparks  of  London  ! 
Sparks  of  London  !'  The  applause  resounded,  even  to  my 
astonishment ;  and  the  audience  were  equally  amazed,  as 
they  found  something,  where  they,  in  fact  expected  nothing. 
Next  speech  was  their  favorite  Barry  in  '  Alexander'  ; 
universally  known,  and  as  universally  felt.  I  now  found 
myself  vastly  elevated  and  clever :  fear  was  vanished,  and 
Joy  and  pleasure  succeeded  ;  a  proof  what  barometers  we 


THE  ADVEXTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON. 


171 


are !  how  soon  elated,  and  how  soon  depressed  !  When 
quite  at  ease,  I  began  with  Mrs.  Woffington  in  Lady  Mac- 
beth, and  Barry  in  Macbeth.  The  laughter  (which  is  the 
strongest  applause  on  a  comic  occasion)  was  so  loud  and 
incessant,  that  I  could  not  proceed.  This  was  a  minute 
of  luxury ;  I  was  then  in  the  region  of  bliss ;  I  was  en- 
cored ;  yet  that  lady 'had  declared  in  London,  on  hearing 
I  was  to  go  with  Foote  to  Ireland,  « Take  me  off!  a  puppy  ! 
— if  he  dare  attempt  it,  by  the  living  G — d  he  will  be 
stoned  to  death.'  Here  the  lady  was  mistaken;  for,  on 
repeating  the  part,  the  second  applause  was  stronger  than 
the  preceding.  A  sudden  thought  occurred ;  I  felt  all 
hardy — all  alert — all  nerve — and  immediately  advanced 
six  steps ;  and,  before  I  spoke  I  received  the  full  testimony 
of  '  true  imitation  !'  My  master,  as  he  was  called,  sat  on 
the  stage  at  the  same  time ;  I  repeated  twelve  or  fourteen 
lines  of  the  very  prologue  he  had  spoken  that  night  (being 
called  for)  to  the  'Author,'  and  he  had  almost  every  night 
repeated:  I,  before  Mr.  Foote,  presented  his  other  self; 
the  audience  from  repetition  were  as  perfect  as  I  was ;  his 
manner,  his  voice,  his  oddities,  I  so  exactly  hit,  that  the 
pleasure,  the  glee  it  gave,  may  easily  be  conceived,  to  see 
and  hear  the  mimic  mimicked,  and  it  really  gave  me  a 
complete  victory  over  Mr.  Foote ;  for  the  suddenness  of 
the  action  tripped  up  his  audacity  so  much,  that  he,  with 
all  his  effrontery,  sat  foolish,  wishing  to  appear  equally 
pleased  with  the  audience,  but  knew  not  how  to  play  that 
difficult  part :  he  was  unprepared ;  the  surprise  and  satis- 
faction were  such,  that,  without  any  conclusion,  the  cur- 
tain was  obliged  to  drop  with  reiterated  bursts  of  applause. 
"  When  the  farce  was  concluded,  I  had  great  congratula- 
tions paid  seriously  and  ironically.  Mr.  Foote  affected  to 
be  vastly  pleased,  but  in  truth  it  was  merely  affectation — so 
differently  do  we  feel  for  ourselves  when  ridicule  is  pointed 


172 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


at  us ;  but  he  said,  it  was  perfectly  well  judged  to  make 
free  with  him,  yet  he  did  not  think  it  very  like  himself,  for 
it  certainly  was  my  worst  imitation,  but  he  rejoiced  at  my 
good  fortune.  In  truth,  Mr.  Foote  got  the  cash,  not  me ; 
what  I  did  was  for  him,  as  he  acted  on  shares  ;  and  the 
'•  fuller  the  house,  the  greater  was  his  profit.  He  was  piqued 
and  chagrined. 

"The  conversation  the  next  day,  particularly  of  all  my 
eager  partial  friends,  was  an  universal  cry  of  '  Foote  out- 
done !  Foote  outdone  !  the  pupil  the  master  !'  and  this  was 
greatly  assisted  by  their  agreeable  disappointment ;  for  I 
do  not  believe  any  one  of  them,  however  warm  they  might 
have  been  in  their  wishes  for  my  welfare,  but  trembled  for 
the  event ;  they  felt  unhappy  lest  I  should  make  a  despica- 
ble attempt,  and  be  universally  disapproved ;  and  then 
reflected  within  themselves,  '  Good  Heaven  !  what  is  to 
become  of  this  poor  youth  ?  what  can  he  do  for  a  subsist- 
ence?' After  my  performance,  from  the  success  I  had 
met  with,  I  could  neither  eat,  drink,  nor  sleep  that  night ; 
pleasant  dreams  I  needed  not ;  my  waking  thoughts  were 
so  much  superior. 

"The  'Tea,'  was  acted  in  regular  succession  several 
nights,  nay,  it  was  commanded  by  the  Duke  and  Duchess 
of  Bedford  ;  his  Grace  was  at  that  time  Lord  Lieutenant. 

"After  the  first  night  of  my  periormance,  Mr.  Sheridan 
appointed  me  a  salary  of  three  guineas  per  week,  and  re- 
quested, with  my  approbation  (which  was  readily  obtained), 
that  Mr.  Foote  would  write  to  Mr.  Garrick  to  grant  per- 
mission for  my  continuance  in  Dublin  till  the  end  of  Feb- 
ruary. Foote  was  obliged  to  go  England  with  all  speed, 
as  he  had  stayed  beyond  his  time ;  but  I  was  left  behind, 
waiting  for  Mr.  Garrick's  answer  to  Mr.  Sheridan's  request, 
but  which  soon  arrived,  and  granted  the  petition  requested 
by  Mr.  Foote." 


TH£  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.      173 

One  day  when  discussing  a  Benefit,  the  Manager  suggested 
that  the  imitations  would  be  more  piquant  if  he  made  the 
actors  of  the  theatre  the  subject  of  his  exertions.  The 
scene  that  followed  was  admirable.  "  I  observed  to  him, 
that  I  had  not  had  leisure  to  have  paid  a  sufficient  attention 
to  that  company,  as  objects  for  imitation ;  besides,  were  I 
capable,  if  I  should  take  that  freedom,  they  would  most 
likely  not  only  insult  me,  but  make  it  a  plea  to  refuse  acting 
for  my  benefit.  That  argument  seemed  with  Mr.  Sheridan 
to  have  but  little  weight ;  he  persisted  angrily.  I  then 
intimated,  that  if  I  complied,  I  hoped  he  would  not  have 
any  objection  to  my  using  his  name,  and  that  I  did  not  do 
it  of  my  own  accord,  but  had  his  express  command  for  that 
purpose.  Mr.  Sheridan  seemed  much  vexed ;  said  that 
what  he  had  asked  me  to  do  was  to  get  me  applause,  and  to 
serve  me,  not  himself;  but  he  should  by  no  means  consent 
to  my  exposing  the  peculiarities  of  his  actors  and  actresses 
under  the  sanction  of  his  desire  and  approbation ;  he 
wished  it  to  come  before  the  audience  as  a  sudden  surprise, 
and  as  my  own  voluntary  act,  and  after  that  had  been  done, 
he  would  have  taken  care  to  have  had  it  so  called  for  by 
the  audience  as  to  prevent  a  possibility  of  the  performers' 
anger  being  of  weight  sufficient  to  prevent  its  repetition ;  and 
the  more  it  vexed  the  actors  and  actresses,  the  greater  relish 
it  would  give  the  audience  :  that  I  believe  was  too  true. 

"  However,  I  continued  my  objection,  but  at  last  (like 
a  fool  in  the  knowledge  of  mankind  and  the  human  heart) 
a  lucky  bright  thought,  as  I  judged  it,  occurred  to  me ; 
and  I  said,  'My  good  Mr.  Sheridan,  I  have  hit  upon  the 
very  thing  to  establish  myself  as  a  favorite  with  you,  and 
the  town.'  He  seemed  all  impatience  to  know  what  it 
could  be.  '  My  dear  sir,  a  thought  has  just  entered  my 
pate,  which  I  think  will  draw  money,  and  be  of  infinite 
service  to  myself.'  '  What  is  it?  What  is  it?1  says  Sher- 


174 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


idan,  with  the  utmost  eagerness.  '  Why,  sir,'  says  I,  '  your 
rank  in  the  theatre,  and  a  gentleman  so  well  known  in 
Dublin,  on  and  off  the  stage,  must  naturally  occasion  any 
striking  imitation  of  yourself  to  have  a  wonderful  effect. 
I  have  paid  great  attention  to  your  whole  mode  of  acting, 
not  only  since  I  have  been  in  Dublin,  but  two  years  before, 
when  you  played  the  whole  season  at  Covent  Garden 
Theatre ;  and  do  actually  think  I  can  do  a  great  deal  on 
your  stage  with  you  alone,  without  interfering  with  any 
other  actor's  manner  whatever.' 

"Hogarth's  pencil  could  not  testify  more  astonishment ; 
he  turned  red  and  pale  alternately — his  lips  quivered.  I 
instantaneously  perceived  I  was  in  the  wrong  box;  it  was 
some  time  before  he  could  speak — he  took  a  candle  from 
off  the  table,  and  showing  me  the  room  door — when  at  last 
his  words  found  utterance — said,  he  never  was  so  insulted. 
What !  to  be  taken  off  by  a  buffoon  upon  his  own  stage  ! 
And  as  to  mimicry,  what  is  it  ?  Why,  a  proceeding  which 
he  never  could  countenance;  that  he  even  despised  Gar- 
rick  and  Foote  for  having  introduced  so  mean  an  art ;  and 
he  then  very  politely  desired  me  to  walk  downstairs.  Mr. 
Sheridan  held  the  candle  for  me  only  till  I  got  to  the  first 
landing,  and  then  hastily  removed  it,  grumbling  and  speak- 
ing to  himself,  and  leaving  me  to  feel  my  way  in  the  dark 
down  a  pair  and  a  half  of  steep  stairs,  and  to  guess  my 
road  in  hopes  of  finding  the  street-door. 

"  After  this  fracas  he  never  permitted  me  to  play,  or 
spoke  to  me  during  my  stay  in  Ireland  (my  own  night 
excepted).  I  fixed  on  'Jane  Shore'  and  'Tom  Thumb,' 
for  my  play  and  farce,  on  the  night  allotted  me,  Saturday, 
February  25,  1758. 

"Mr.  Chaigneau  himself  waited  on  Mrs.  Fitzhenry  to 
request  her  powerful  assistance  in  Alicia,  to  which  request 
she  kindly  assented. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.     175 

"  The  rapid  step  from  my  late  illness,  extreme  poverty, 
and  friendless  situation  had  taken  such  a  turn,  that  with 
my  coach,  table  acquaintance  presents,  and  great  benefit 
I  thought  my  fortune  made,  and  early  in  March,  with  true- 
felt  gratitude,  not  from  that  day,  week,  or  month,  but 
never  effaced  to  the  present  moment,  now  including  above 
thirty-two  years,  I  took  leave  of  my  good  friends,  in  pos- 
session of  two  valuable  gifts,  health  and  wealth.  Indeed 
to  the  wonderful  care  of  these  good  and  undescribable 
persons  can  I  only  attribute  my  existence,  and  also  my 
wealth,  as  from  that  time,  till  encumbered  with  the  cares 
of  my  present  unpromising  and  perplexed  state,  I  never 
knew,  in  the  course  of  several  years,  the  want  of  cash; 
which  state  of  happiness  my  after  frequent  visits  to  Dublin 
made  me,  as  a  young  man,  in  a  kind  of  independence. 

"  With  now  1307.  in  that  pocket  which  a  very  few  months 
before  contained  only  two  guineas  (and  which  I  then  termed 
a  treasure) — but  good  God  !  what  a  change  ! — like  a  ten- 
thousand-pound  prize  to  a  cobbler — I  sailed  from  Ireland 
with  a  fair  wind,  attended  by  the  waft  of  numberless  good 
wishes  for  my  safe  arrival  in  Old  England. 

"Soon  after  my  arrival,  I  presented  myself  with  as  much 
duty  as  pleasure  to  my  dear  mother,  as  every  son  should 
and  ought  to  do,  and  am  certain  the  return  was  overpaid 
by  her.  Her  joy,  surprise,  and  a  thousand  etceteras  which 
may  be  supposed — and  only  affectionate  and  good  mothers 
can  feel  such  heavenly  sensations :  I  do  not  speak  from 
supposition,  but  can  aver  that  though  there  was,  is,  and 
ever  will  be  good  parents,  yet  mine  was  really  sprung  from 
the  tree  called  the  Nonpareil ;  and  I  can  with  truth  boast  I 
possessed  one  truly  praiseworthy  quality,  and  that  was, 
being  one  of  the  best  sons,  not  from  any  merit  as  a  duty 
from  myself  due  to  my  mother,  but  because  I  loved  and 
revered  her  worth,  and  conversed  with  my  true  friend. 


176  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

The  giving  to  her  an  account  of  my  riches,  and  my  friends 
in  Ireland,  was  a  feast ;  and  my  producing  the  i30/.  bill 
was  a  dazzling  sight  indeed,  though  only  in  black  and 
white  letters." 

III. 

With  this  dangerous  weapon  of  mimicry  as  stock  in 
trade,  the  young  man  prospered  in  his  career.  His  amus- 
ing gifts — invaluable  at  a  supper — found  him  plenty  of  ac- 
quaintances, though  not  friends,  for  they  involved  him  in 
many  awkward  positions.  Nothing  is  more  ludicrous  than 
his  sketch  of  Foote,  and  the  trepidation  and  fury  of  the 
greet  mimic,  when  he  found  his  own  arms  turned  against 
himself,  with  the  description  of  the  contest  in  Garrick's 
breast,  between  satisfaction  at  seeing  an  enemy  ridiculed, 
and  what  he  felt  was  his  duty.  Indeed  in  the  exhibition 
of  the  meaner  corners  of  human  character  Wilkinson  is 
excellent. 

When  he  returned  to  town  Mr.  Garrick  determined  to 
bring  the  two  mimics  out  in  their  Dublin  entertainment, 
which  was  thus  advertised  : 

"'DIVERSIONS   OF  THE   MORNING. 

Principal  Characters, 

Mr.  FOOTE, 

Mr.  HOLLAND, 

Mr.  PACKER, 

with  others, 

And  Mr.  WILKINSON,' 

without  my  '  first  appearance,'  which  certainly  was  unkind 
and  unprecedented,  as  it  did  not  introduce  me  to  the 
candor  of  the  public,  which  they  ever  grant  to  a  young 
performer  and  novice  on  the  stage.  However,  this  is  an 
after-thought ;  for  I  was  at  that  time  highly  gratified  with 
the  large  letters  in  which  my  name  was  printed,  a  foible 


THE  ADVEN7URES  OF  TATE    WILKINSON. 


177 


natural  to  every  candidate.  Soon  after  this  farce  was 
known  by  the  town  to  be  in  rehearsal,  some  Mrs.  Candour 
gave  my  friend  Mrs.  Woffington  the  alarm,  who  still  lived 
and  existed  on  the  flattering  hopes  of  once  more  captivat- 
ing the  public  by  her  remaining  rays  of  beauty  (born  to 
bloom  and  fade) ;  and  who  declared  she  was  astonished  on 
hearing  I  had  survived  my  presumption  in  Ireland,  in 
daring  there  to  take  her  off. 

"  On  deliberation  she  deputed  Colonel  Caesar  to  wait  on 
Mr.  Garrick.  He  said  to  Mr.  Garrick,  he  should  not  be 
surprised  if  young  Wilkinson  had  success  on  such  an  at- 
tempt ;  but  as  the  performance  might  render  her,  as  an 
actress,  ridiculous,  his  intention  as  a  visitor  to  Garrick  was 
to  inform  him,  if  he  permitted  such  procedure  or  achieve- 
ment from  Mr.  Wilkinson  on  his  stage,  he  must  expect 
from  him  (Col.  Caesar)  to  be  seriously  called  upon  as  a 
gentleman  to  answer  it.  Mr.  Garrick  immediately  not 
only  acquiesced,  but  expressed  a  detestation  of  any  such 
performance  (bless  his  good-nature),  and  coincided  in 
opinion  that  such  an  attempt  on  the  merits  of  Mrs.  Wof- 
fington's  acting  would  be  illiberal  and  unwarrantable  in 
the  highest  degree. 

"  The  day  before  the  piece  was  to  be  acted  he  summoned 
Foote  and  me,  and  related  the  above-mentioned  partic- 
ulars, and  informed  us  that  his  word  and  honor  were  en- 
gaged to  Colonel  Caesar  that  Mr.  Wilkinson  should  not 
take  the  liberty  to  make  any  line,  speech,  or  manner  rela- 
tive to  Mrs.  Woffington,  or  presume  to  offer  or  occasion 
any  surmise  of  likeness,  so  as  to  give  the  least  shadow  of 
offence,  on  any  account  whatever.  This  I  subscribed  to 
on  Mr.  Garrick' s  commands,  and  Mr.  Foote  became  my 
bail  for  the  same — for  Garrick  was  really  on  this  matter 
very  uneasy  with  Foote,  and  Wilkinson,  his  d — d  exotics. 

"  The  '  Diversions  of  the  Morning'  was  at  length  pro- 
H* 


178  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

duced  in  October,  and  to  an  overflowing  theatre.  Curios- 
ity was  universally  raised  to  see  Mr.  Foote's  pupil,  as  I 
was  called,  and  to  this  hour  by  many  believed.  Mr.  Foote's 
acquaintance  were  numerous,  and  of  the  first  circles;  and 
he  took  every  precaution  and  care,  for  his  own  sake  (for 
/ear  of  failure  or  party),  to  have  me  strongly  supported, 
(and  he  blazed  forth  Wilkinson's  wonderful  merit,  as  on 
jmy  success  he  intended  what  he  put  into  execution,  which 
was,  to  give  me  the  laboring  oar  and  make  myself  a  num- 
ber of  implacable  enemies :  and  as  to  the  money  I  brought, 
he  judged  it  only  safe  and  fit  for  his  own  emolument. 

"  In  the  second  act  of  the  farce  he,  by  his  pupils,  called 
me  on  as  Mr.  Wilkinson — Mr.  Wilkinson  !  I  was  received 
with  every  pleasing  token  by  the  first  audience  in  the  world 
for  candor  and  liberality — for  such  London  certainly  is 
when  unbiased  ; — it  most  assuredly  commands  and  deserves 
that  appellation.  The  scene  between  Mr.  Foote  and  myself 
went  off  with  great  eclat;  on  my  departure  from  the  stage, 
while  he  did  his  puppets,  etc.,  the  audience  grew  very  im- 
patient by  seeing  my  exit,  and  judged  that  was  all  the  new 
actor  was  to  do ;  and,  feeling  a  disappointment,  from  mur- 
muring they  grew  impatient,  and  at  last  burst  out  into 
vehemently  asking  for  Wilkinson,  and  desiring  to  be  in- 
formed if  that  was  the  only  performance  they  were  to 
expect  from  that  young  gentleman.  This  loud  interruption 
was  not  paying  him  his  accustomed  attention,  and  he 
seemed  much  nettled ;  however,  he  bowed,  and  said  the 
new  performer  was  only  retired  for  a  little  respite  necessary 
for  his  following  part  of  the  entertainment.  This  answer 
was  approved,  and  Mr.  Foote  was  proceeding,  but  the  little 
clamor  had  reached  and  disturbed  the  minds  of  the  gods, 
and  John  Bull,  as  well  as  their  godships,  thinking  Mr. 
Foote  meant  to  deprive  them  of  part  of  their  rights, 
though  they  could  not  tell  what,  as  they  had  not  all  heard 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON. 


179 


Mr.  Foote's  apology  distinctly,  again  repeated,  'Wilkin- 
son !  Wilkinson  !'  Foote  at  this  second  interruption  grew 
really  offended,  and  having  secured  the  lower  house,  he 
stopped  and  said  to  Mr.  Manly  (Holland,  who  was  on  the 
stage  with  him),  '  Did  you  ever  hear  such  fellows  ?  D — n 
it,  they  want  the  fifth  act  of  a  play  before  the  second  is 
over !'  And  as  what  he  said  generally  passed  current,  this 
occasioned  an  universal  roar,  and  all  went  on  peaceably, 
and  with  great  good-humor,  till  the  appointed  time  for  my 
second  entrance,  which  was  near  the  conclusion — the  people 
eager  to  applaud  they  knew  not  why  or  what,  but  full  of 
expectation  that  some  strange  performance  was  to  be  pro- 
duced— and,  indeed,  to  give  an  account  of  the  approbation, 
the  sudden  effect,  the  incessant  laughter,  would  argue  so 
much  of  the  fabulist,  and  of  dear  self,  that  it  would  surfeit 
even  me  to  read ;  and  if  so,  how  would  an  entire  stranger 
feel  ?  why  treat  it  with  an  angry  or  contemptuous  opinion  ! 
Therefore  let  it  suffice,  that  everything  succeeded  that  night 
that  could  gratify  the  pride,  vanity,  and  most  sanguine 
wishes  of  a  young  man  greedy  for  fame. 

"  The  next  night  the  house  was  jammed  in  every  part — 
the  morning  of  which  it  was  strongly  rumored  that  the 
actors  of  Covent  Garden  were  highly  enraged — that  Mr. 
Sparks  in  particular  was  really  disordered  on  the  occasion. 
Mr.  Holland  called  at  the  theatre,  and  informed  Mr.  Gar- 
rick  and  Mr.  Foote,  he  had  actually  heard  that  Mr.  Sparks 
was  so  much  hurt  and  unhappy,  that  he  had  taken  to  his 
bed  and  was  dangerously  ill ;  Foote  immediately  replied 
(in  his  laughing  manner)  that  it  could  not  be  true,  or,  that 
it  must  be  a  d — d  lie ;  for  he  had  met  his  wife  with  two 
pounds  of  mutton-chops  on  a  skewer  for  her  husband's 
dinner.  This  impromptu  occasioned  a  hearty  green-room 
laugh  ;  for  the  actors  in  general  disliked  Foote  at  that  time, 
and  did  not  relish  his  writings  on  account  of  the  freedoms 


l8o  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

he  often  took  with  the  profession,  as,  when  introduced,  the 
actors  and  managers  were  generally  mentioned  in  a  degrad- 
ing light.  Though  he  knew  the  public  relished  the  severity, 
yet  in  fact  it  was  not  generous  or  neat  to  dirty  his  own 
nest  instead  of  cleansing  the  theatrical  stable;  and  his 
having  been  free  with  the  performer's  mode  of  playing  had 
occasioned  very  little  regard  from  any,  and  from  several  a 
fixed  hatred.  He  had  a  number  of  enemies  in  private  life. 
Indeed  many  domestic  characters  severely  felt  his  comic 
lash,  which  was  smarting  to  those  on  whom  it  was  inflicted  ; 
but  still  his  universal  acquaintance,  his  wit,  humor,  open 
house,  and  entertaining  qualities  raised  him  superior  to  his 
maligners,  and  in  general  he  rolled  in  luxury  and  indo- 
lence. It  would  have  been  much  more  unfashionable  not 
to  have  laughed  at  Foote's  jokes  than  even  at  Quin's.* 

"  This  little  piece  went  on  in  a  most  flourishing  state  till 
about  the  fifth  or  sixth  night,  when  Mr.  Sparks  of  Covent 
Garden  Theatre  felt  himself  so  wounded  by  my  attack  on 
his  acting  (which  truly  was  a  very  picturesque  one,  and 
those  who  remember  him  and  me  at  that  time  will  allow 
what  I  have  here  said),  that  he  waited  on  Mr.  Garrick, 
and  requested  he  would  not  suffer  him,  as  a  man  of  credit 
in  private  life,  and  an  actor  of  estimation  in  public,  to  be 
destroyed  by  such  an  illiberal  attack  on  his  livelihood ; 
and  as  it  struck  at  his  reputation,  hoped  he  would  not  per- 
mit it  in  future  as  far  as  regarded  himself,  whom  it  had 
rendered  miserable.  Garrick  said,  '  Why  now,  hey,  Sparks ! 
why  now,  hey,  this  is  so  strange  now,  hey,  a — why  Wilkin- 
son, and  be  d — d  to  him,  they  tell  me  he  takes  me  off,  and 
he  takes  Foote  off,  and  so,  why  you  see  that  you  are  in 
very  good  company.' — 'Very  true,  sir,'  says  Sparks,  'but 
many  an  honest  man  has  been  ruined  by  keeping  too  good 

*  An  excellent  bit  of  character  drawing. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.      181 

company ;'  and  then  Sparks  made  his  bow  and  his  exit. 
Mr.  Garrick,  however,  came  to  the  theatre  at  noon, 
paraded  with  great  consequence  up  and  down  the  stage, 
sent  for  me,  and  when  I  obeyed  the  mighty  summons  he 
was  surrounded  by  most  of  the  performers.  I  fancied  it 
had  been  some  lucky,  good-natured  thought  of  his  to  serve 
me ;  but  why  should  I  have  imagined  so,  for  he  soon  con- 
vinced me  to  the  contrary,  as  he  began  a  fiery  lecture  with, 
'  Now,  hey  d — n  it,  Wilkinson  ! — now,  why  will  you  take 
a  liberty  with  these  gentlemen  the  players,  and  without  my 
consent  ?  You  never  consulted  or  told  me  you  were  to  take 
off  as  you  call  it : — hey,  why  now,  I  never  take  such  liber- 
ties. Indeed  I  once  did  it,  but  I  gave  up  such  d — d  impu- 
dence. Hey  now,  that  is  I  say — but  you  and  Foote,  and 
Foote  and  you,  think  you  are  managers  of  this  theatre. 
But  to  convince  you  of  the  contrary,  and  be  d — d  to  ye, 
I  here  order  you,  before  these  gentlemen,  to  desist  from 
taking  any  liberty  with  any  one  of  Covent  Garden  Thea- 
tre ;  and  I  think  it  necessary  to  avow  and  declare  my  ab- 
horrence of  what  j«ou  have  done,  and  at  the  same  time  to 
disclaim  my  consent  or  knowledge  of  it.  I  do  not  allow 
myself  such  unbecoming  liberties,  nor  will  I  permit  them 
from  another  where  I  am  manager  ;  and  if  you  dare  repeat 
such  a  mode  of  conduct  after  my  commands,  I  will  fine 
you  the  penalty  of  your  article' — which  was  three  hundred 
pounds.  Here  I  felt  myself  in  a  fine  predicament ;  here 
was  a  sudden  fall  to  all  my  greatness,  and  a  haste  to  my 
setting.  The  actors  and  actresses,  one  and  all,  applauded 
the  goodness  of  Mr.  Garrick' s  heart,  and  sneered  at  the 
lowered  pride  of  an  upstart  mimic  and  his  imitations.  I 
was  exceedingly  embarrassed  and  mortified,  when  up  came 
to  me  Dame  Clive,  who  said  aloud,  'Fie,  young  man  !  fie!' 
and  declared  it  was  imprudent  and  shocking  for  a  young 
fellow  to  gain  applause  at  the  expense  of  the  players. 
16 


1 82  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

'  Now,'  added  she,  '  I  can  and  do  myself  take  off,  but  then 
it  is  only  the  Mingotti,*  and  a  set  of  Italian  squalling 
devils  who  come  over  to  England  to  get  our  bread  from 

us;  and  I  say  curse  them  all  for  a  parcel  of  Italian ,' 

and  so  Madam  Clive  made  her  exit,  and  with  the  approba- 
tion of  all  the  stage  lords  and  ladies  in  waiting,  whilst  I 
stood  like  a  puppy  dog  in  a  dancing  school — when  Mr. 
Mossop,  the  turkey-cock  of  the  stage,  with  slow  and 
haughty  steps,  all  erect,  his  gills  all  swelling,  eyes  disdain- 
ful, and  hand  upon  his  sword,  breathing,  as  if  his  respira- 
tion was  honor,  and  like  the  turkey  almost  bursting  with 
pride,  began  with  much  hauteur :  '  Mr.  Wilkinson  !  phew  !' 
(as  breathing  grand)  'sir, — Mr.  Wil — kin — son,  sir,  I  say 
— phew  ! — how  dare  you,  sir,  make  free  in  a  public  thea- 
tre, or  even  in  a  private  party,  with  your  superiors  ?  If  you 
were  to  take  such  a  liberty  with  me,  sir,  I  would  draw  my 
sword  and  run  it  through  your  body,  sir!  you  should  not 
live,  sir  /' — and  with  the  greatest  pomp  and  grandeur  made 
his  departure.  His  supercilious  air  and  manner  were  so 
truly  ridiculous,  that  I  perceived  Mr.  Garrick  underwent 
much  difficulty  to  prevent  his  gravity  from  changing  to  a 
burst  of  merriment ;  but  when  Mossop  was  fairly  out  of 
sight,  he  could  not  contain  himself,  and  the  laugh  begin- 
ning with  the  manager,  it  was  followed  with  avidity  by 
each  one  who  could  laugh  the  most — and  all  anger  with 
me  was  for  a  few  minutes  suspended.  And  certainly  Mos- 
sop's  Don  Quixote-like  manner  was  irresistibly  diverting, 
and  pleased  every  one  but  me,  who  stood  all  their  brunts, 
for  I  did  not  feel  myself  in  a  cheerful  mood ;  yet  good- 
humor  was  so  prevalent,  that  I  could  not  refrain  from 
smiling,  and  at  this  time  can  laugh  very  heartily  whenever 
I  bring  the  scene  into  my  mind's  eye.  Presently  entered 

*  Mingotti  was  the  Mara  of  that  year. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.      183 

Foote,  loudly  singing  a  French  song  to  show  his  breeding, 
and  on  seeing  such  a  group  of  actors  on  the  stage,  pro- 
nounced, like  Witwou'd,  '  Hey  day  !  what  are  you  all  got 
together  here  like  players  at  the  end  of  the  last  act !' — then 
said  he  had  called  at  Mr.  Garrick's  house,  and  was  in- 
formed he  should  find  him  at  the  theatre ;  for  he  wanted 
to  fix  on  two  or  three  plays  wherein  he  would  act  on  the 
nights  of  his  'Diversions  in  the  Morning.'  Mr.  Garrick 
then  assumed  much  serious  consequence,  and  related  to 
Mr.  Foote  the  state  of  affairs — that  he  had  received  strong 
representations  from  Covent  Garden  Theatre,  and  had,  from 
motives  of  humanity  and  consideration,  resolved  to  put  a 
stop  to  Wilkinson's  proceedings,  and  that  Mr.  Tate  must 
that  night  perform  the  part  of  Bounce  only,  and  at  his 
peril  to  disobey  his  orders ;  and  that  after  his  exit  as  Mr. 
Bounce,  the  piece  must  finish  with  Mr.  Foote's  perform- 
ance, and  no  more  Wilkinson.  'If,  indeed  now — if  Wil- 
kinson could  have  taken  me  off,  as  Mrs.  Garrick  says, 
why  now  as  to  that  I  should  have  liked  it  vastly,  and  so 
would  Mrs.  Garrick.  But  I  again  enforce  Wilkinson's 
not  appearing  on  my  stage  a  second  time ;'  and  to  my 
astonishment  Foote  assented  ;  but  had  I  been  intimate  or 
acquainted  with  chicanery  and  the  mysteries  behind  the 
curtain  of  a  London  theatre  (though  to  this  hour  I  am  not 
above  half  perfect),  my  wonder  would  not  have  been  so 
great. 

"•I  went  from  the  playhouse  in  dudgeon,  and  retired 
home  with  a  heavy  mind,  though  only  three  hours  before 
I  had  left  my  lodgings  all  elate,  and  with  a  heart  as  light 
as  a  feather.  As  the  evening  approached,  I  went  and  pre- 
pared myself  for  Bounce  only,  according  to  order,  and 
when  Bounce  was  finished  retired  to  the  green-room ;  but 
am  certain  both  Mr.  Garrick  and  Mr.  Foote  had  planted 
persons  in  the  house  to  call  for  Wilkinson,  because  Mr. 


1 84  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

Foote  had  not  gone  through  half  his  performance  when 
the  call  for  me  was  universal ;  which  could  not  have  been 
the  case,  as  it  was  a  repeated  piece,  and  the  time  not  come 
for  my  second  appearance  as  usual,  had  not  subtlety  been 
used  in  the  business.  The  clamor  continued  when  Mr. 
Foote  retired  from  the  stage,  and  Mr.  Garrick  ordered  the 
lights  to  be  let  down,  which  consisted  of  six  chandeliers 
hanging  over  the  stage,  every  one  containing  twelve  can- 
dles in  brass  sockets,  and  a  heavy  iron  flourished  and 
joined  to  each  bottom,  large  enough  for  a  street  palisade. 
This  ceremony  being  complied  with,  Mr.  Garrick  said  it 
would,  with  the  lamps  also  lowered,  be  a  convincing  proof 
to  the  audience  that  all  was  over;  but  this  only  served, 
like  oil  thrown  on  flames,  to  increase  the  vociferation. 
On  Garrick's  perceiving  this,  he  came  to  me  in  the  green- 
room, and  with  seeming  anger  and  terror  asked  me,  how  I 
had  dared  to  cause  a  riot  and  disturbance  in  his  theatre, 
and  send  a  set  of  blackguards  into  the  house  to  call  for 
me.  All  I  could  urge  in  my  horrid  situation  was,  asserting 
my  ignorance  of  the  matter,  which  was  of  no  avail ;  and 
while  I  was  proceeding  with  my  asseveration  in  piano,  the 
forte  broke  out  into  outrageous  tumult.  What  was  to  be 
done?  I  replied,  I  would  run  away;  but  that,  Mr.  Gar- 
rick said,  as  matters  stood,  could  not  be  suffered.  '  Foote  ! 
— Foote! — Foote!'  was  echoed  and  re-echoed  from  every 
part  of  the  house  :  he  had  been  standing  with  the  most 
perfect  ease,  and  laughing  all  the  time;  but  being  thus 
loudly  summoned,  obeyed  the  call  of  duty,  and  on  the 
stage  instantly  presented  himself;  and  when  there  was  in- 
terrogated why  Mr.  Wilkinson's  part  of  the  farce  that  had 
been  so  well  received  was  omitted.  Mr.  Foote  made  an 
harangue,  and  observed,  if  honored  with  their  patience  to 
hear  him,  he  would  endeavor  to  explain,  and  he  hoped  to 
their  satisfaction  ;  on  this  silence  ensued.  He  said,  he 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILK1XSOX.     185 

was  exceedingly  sorry  to  have  given  cause  for  being  called 
to  an  account  for  any  motive  of  their  displeasure.  But 
very  unfortunately  what  had  only  been  humbly  offered  as 
harmless,  had  been  basely  misconstrued  into  wickedness : 
for  Mr.  Garrick  and  himself  (Mr.  Foote)  had  received 
remonstrances  and  cruel  reflections  from  certain  per- 
formers, alleging  that  they  suffered  in  their  reputations ; 
and  as  reputations  were  not  slender  materials,  in  conse- 
quence thereof  Mr.  Garrick  and  himself,  from  motives  of 
generosity,  had  yielded  to  such  importunity  and  allega- 
tions, and  had  cheerfully  sacrificed  that  part  of  the  enter- 
tainment ;  as  by  so  doing  they  added  happiness  and  private 
peace  to  others,  however  beneficial  the  continuance  of  it 
might  have  been  to  the  theatre ;  and  ardently  hoped  their 
conduct  on  the  occasion,  was  such  as  merited  not  only  the 
pardon,  but  the  approbation  of  the  audience,  and  which 
should  ever  be  their  study  to  merit  and  obtain. 

"  This  declamation,  instead  of  pacifying,  was  treated 
with  marks  of  anger  and  contempt,  and  an  universal  cry 
for  Wilkinson! — Wilkinson!  On  which  Mr.  Foote  ad- 
vanced once  more,  and  said,  as  for  his  own  peculiarities, 
if  they  could  afford  the  least  entertainment,  Mr.  Wilkinson 
was  at  full  liberty  to  exercise  his  talents  to  their  utmost  ex- 
tent ;  and  then  added  archly  (for  the  which  I  have  reason 
to  think  the  manager  did  not  find  himself  in  the  least 
obliged),  he  believed,  nay  was  assured,  Mr.  Wilkinson 
might  as  far  as  respected  Mr.  Garrick,  without  any  restric- 
tions, take  the  same  freedom.  The  cry  was  for  me  imme- 
diately to  appear,  and  that  without  delay;  Mr.  Foote 
promised  I  should  be  instantly  produced,  and  took  leave 
with  a  general  plaudit.  It  may  easily  be  supposed  mine 
was  a  perplexed  state,  being  in  even-  point  circumstanced 
very  disagreeably,  and  not  a  friend  to  speak  to  me.  On 
Mr.  Foote's  return  to  the  green-room,  he  laid  hold  of  my 
16* 


1 86  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

arm,  and  said  I  must  go  on  the  stage  that  moment.  '  And 
what  must  I  do  when  I  am  there?'  says  I.  'O  !'  replied 
he,  'anything — what  you  like;  and  treat  them  with  as 
much  of  me  as  you  please.'  "Ay,'  but  says  I,  'what 
does  Mr.  Garrick  say?  for  without  his  orders  I  cannot 
proceed.'  'Hey — why  now — hey!'  says  Garrick,  'why 
now,  as  they  insist,  I  really  do  not  see  that  I  am  bound  to 
run  the  hazard  of  having  a  riot  in  my  theatre  to  please 
Sparks  and  the  rest  of  the  Covent  Garden  people;  and  if 
they  are  not  satisfied  with  your  serving  up  Mr.  Foote  as  a 
dish — why,  it  is  a  pity,  as  I  to-day  observed,  but  you  could 
give  me;  but  that  you  say  is  not  possible  with  any  hopes 
of  success.  Why  now — haste — they  are  making  a  devilish 
noise;  and  so,  as  you  have  begun  your  d — d  taking  off — 
why  go  on  with  it,  and  do  what  comes  into  your  head,  and 
do  not  in  future  plague  me  with  your  cursed  tricks  again.' 
So  Sam  Foote  popped  the  Exotic  on  the  stage ;  there  was 
no  time  to  be  lost,  as  they  feared  bad  consequences.  I 
was  afraid  to  go  on,  but  on  the  stage  I  was  actually  pushed 
by  Mr.  Garrick  and  Mr.  Foote,-  and  my  hair  did  stand  on 
end  like  quills  upon  the  fretful  porcupine.  The  curtain 
was  dropped,  and  the  branches  also  down  on  each  side. 
My  fright  was  apparent,  but  Mr.  Town  soon  cheered  my 
spirits,  as  there  was  not  one  dissenting  voice  in  the  whole 
audience.  I  began,  and  very  freely,  with  Mr.  Foote,  and 
then  was  for  retiring,  but  the  cry  was,  '  No,  no — go  on,  go 
on!'  and  many  said  aloud,  'D — n  it,  take  them  all  off!' 
I  took  the  hint,  and  was  encouraged  at  so  furious  a  rate, 
that  I  went  through  a  long  course  of  mimicry  with  great 
eclat,  having  permission,  as  I  thought.  My  distress  of  the 
morning  all  vanished,  and  was  exchanged  for  the  most  de- 
lightful feelings  in  the  evening;  being  all  elated,  and  on  a 
short  reflection,  relying  on  Garrick's  declaration,  as  the 
words  of  truth,  when  he  had  twice  declared  nothing  could 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.      187 

please  him  or  Mrs.  Garrick  more  than  a  well-executed 
likeness  of  himself  as  an  actor.  But  note,  good  reader, 
in  this  point  I  had  not  acted  with  honor,  but  duplicity ; 
for  whenever  he  had  jokingly  asked  me  '  What  sort  of  a 
subject  I  could  make  of  him?'  I  always  answered,  '  I  never 
could  form  any  resemblance  whatever ;  for  his  manner  and 
tones  were  so  natural,  and  his  voice  so  melodious,  that  any 
imitation  was  impossible.'  This  he  greedily  swallowed 
and  believed  (charming  flattery  !) ;  but  in  the  close  of  my 
performance  that  remarkable  night,  the  audience  were  won- 
derfully surprised  and  tickled  on  beholding  so  unexpect- 
edly a  resemblance  of  the  incomparable  Roscius ;  which 
increased  my  spirits  to  such  a  degree,  that  I  determine  to 
give  the  audience  a  good  meal ;  and,  finding  my  first  at- 
tack had  made  a  favorable  impression  in  their  opinions,  I 
advanced  without  mercy,  cried  havoc,  and  produced  Mr. 
Garrick  in  three  characters.  And  at  the  last  line  I  made 
my  finish  and  exit  in  his  manner,  with  loud  acclamations, 
and  was  all  alive,  alive  O  !  But  for  me  personally  to  recite 
these  peculiarities,  would  give  a  much  better  idea  than 
even  the  ablest  pen  can  possibly  describe. 

"After  this  night  all  opposition  or  affront  was  dropped, 
and  the  enraged  performers  were  advised  to  let  me  die  a 
natural  death,  as  the  most  prudent  method ;  for,  by  opposite 
means,  they  rendered  Wilkinson  popular,  and  by  not  taking 
umbrage  he  would  sink  into  insignificance.  The  farce  was 
continued  and  gained  additional  force ;  and  Mr.  Foote,  as 
he  reaped  the  profit,  was  highly  enraptured,  and  said  Wil- 
kinson was  very  clever.  He  was  the  general,  receiving  high 
and  honorary  rewards,  whilst,  in  fact,  I  was  merely  held  in 
rank  as  a  poor  subaltern  at  low  pay,  for  standing  to  be  shot 
at.  Mr.  Garrick,  who  felt  aggrieved  from  what  he  had 
himself  desired  me  to  do,  and  what  I  had  acted  by  his 
request  and  permission,  blamed  mt  (as  is  natural  in  most 


188  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

cases)  rather  than  himself,  and   not  being  my  friend,  it 
served  to  increase  his  spleen  and  dislike." 

IV. 

Not  long  after  this  scene  he  went  down  on  an  engage- 
ment to  the  Portsmouth  Theatre,  where  a  company  of  the 
usual  bizarre  elements  had  been  hastily  got  together,  among 
whom  was  a  Miss  Kitty  White  and  her  mother, — a  strange 
being  belonging  to  the  race  of  "actresses'  mamas" — and 
who  is  thus  roughly  sketched. 

"Mrs.  White,  the  mother,  was  a  most  extraordinary 
character,  and  worthy  o,f  record ;  far  from  wanting  sense 
and  observation,  she  was  quick,  lively,  cunning^  and  saga- 
cious, but  had  passions  that  outstripped  the  wind,  yet  good- 
natured  at  times.  All  this  variety,  as  differently  tuned  for 
good  or  ill  temper,  was  aided  by  the  finest  slip-slop  collec- 
tion of  words  imaginable,  that  made  her  in  truth,  not  only 
to  myself,  but  to  many  others,  an  inexhaustible  fund  of 
entertainment,  and  she  was  to  me  beyond  compare  the 
most  diverting  old  lady  I  ever  met  with.  Whenever  Bur- 
den, her  son-in-law,  gave  offense,  which  was  almost  per- 
petually, she  used  thus  to  harangue  her  daughter:  '  Ma'am, 
you  have  married  a  feller  beneath  you — you  played  Lucy 
last  night  in  the  '  Minor'  better  than  Mrs.  Gibber  could 
have  done  upon  my  soul,  and  yet  this  scoundrel  would  hurt 
such  a  divine  cretur !'  '  True,  mama,'  replied  her  daughter, 
'  but  suppose  he  should  in  despair  and  rage  cut  his  throat  ?' 
'Cut  his  throat !  let  him  cut  his  throat  and  go  to  the  devil ; 
but  he  won't  cut  his  throat,  no  such  good  luck.  But  I'll 
tell  you  what,  ma'am,  if  you  contradict  me  I'll  fell  you  at 
my  feet,  and  trample  over  your  corse,  ma'am,  for  you  are 
a  limb,  ma'am ;  your  father  on  his  death-bed  told  me  you 
were  a  limb.  You  are  pure  as  ermind,  ma'am,  except  with 
Sir  Francis  Dolvol  (Delaval),  and  you  sha'n't  live  with  your 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON,     jgg 

husband,  ma'am ;  you  have  no  business  to  live  with  your 
husband ;  the  first  women  of  quality,  ma'am,  don't  live 
with  their  husbands,  ma'am.  Does  Mrs.  Elmy  live  with 
her  husband  ?  No,  ma'am.  Does  Mrs.  Clive  live  with 
her  husband?  No,  ma'am.  Does  Mrs.  Gibber  live  with 
her  husband?  No,  ma'am.  So  now,  ma'am,  you  see  the 
best  women  of  fashion  upon  earth  don't  live  with  their 
husbands,  ma'am.'  And  thus  concluded  one  of  this  good 
lady's  harangues.  In  short,  this  old  gentlewoman  was  the 
delight  of  myself  and  company,  and  to  those  in  particular 
who  knew  her — and  her  acquaintance  was  not  confined. 
She  pleased  me  so  much  that  I  should  tire  the  reader  with 
the  subject,  and  make  him  skip  from  page  to  page,  so  will 
leave  my  dear  Mrs.  White  for  the  present,  proceed  to  busi- 
ness, and  introduce,  at  some  future  opportunity,  that  lady 
into  good  company." 

Admiral  Rodney  and  the  fleet  were  now  at  Portsmouth, 
and  in  every  audience  there  was  of  course  a  strong  nautical 
flavor.  Trying  to  gratify  these  patrons,  the  following  little 
adventure  befell  Mr.  Wilkinson.  It  is  a  perfect  picture, 
and  told  dramatically. 

"On  Monday,  July  23,  1759,  I  acted  Hamlet,  Mr. 
Moody  the  grave-digger.  As  I  was  paying  attention,  in 
the  fifth  act,  to  Mr.  Moody's  grave-digger,  Mr.  Kennedy 
(the  manager)  plucked  me  by  the  sleeve,  and  said,  '  Mind 
what  you  do,  for  Mr.  Garrick  is  in  the  pit!'  It  rather 
alarmed  me,  but  having  time  before  my  entrance  to  recon- 
noitre, and  not  finding  any  likeness,  I  looked  upon  it  as  a 
joke;  and  not  hearing  from  any  person  that  he  had  been 
^een,  and  so  well  known,  I  went  out  to  supper  and  stayed 
late.  But  the  next  morning  I  was  waked  by  a  messenger 
from  the  Fountain  Tavern,  with  Mr.  Garrick's  invitation  to 
breakfast ;  I  was  of  course  astonished  at  such  an  unexpected 
visitant  at  Portsmouth,  and  wondered  still  more  at  the 


1 9o 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


occasion,  which  in  my  hurried  thoughts  I  could  not  devise. 
I  instantly  returned  an  answer  that  I  would  with  pleasure 
wait  on  him,  hastily  equipped  myself,  and  entered  the  room 
that  great  personage  then  graced,  made  my  bow,  and  re- 
ceived a  very  hearty  and  friendly  greeting.  Here  was  a 
change  !  On  this  wonderful  greeting  we  were  the  most 
cordial,  good,  easy  acquaintance  that  can  be  imagined  : 
we  chatted  agreeably,  for  he  seemed  as  pleased  as  I  really 
was  at  this  astonishing  alteration. 

"After  breakfast  we  walked  on  the  ramparts,  and  then 
went  to  the  dock-yards ;  he  was  in  such  good  spirits  that 
he  ordered  a  bottle  of  hock  to  be  made  into  a  cool  tankard, 
with  balm,  &c.  It  was  at  noon  in  the  height  of  summer, 
and  the  heat  was  his  excuse  for  so  extraordinary  a  draught 
before  dinner. 

"My  reader  may  be  certain  that  whenever  Mr.  Garrick 
chose  to  throw  off  acting  and  dignity,  and  was  not  sur- 
rounded by  business  to  perplex  him,  he  had  it  in  his  power 
to  render  himself  a  most  pleasing,  improving,  and  delight- 
ful companion. 

"Mr.  Garrick's  walking  arm-in-arm  with  me  was  an 
honor  I  dreamed  not  of.  He  congratulated  me  on  being 
so  great  a  favorite ;  and  what  he  said  was  of  much  more 
service,  he  being  so  well  acquainted  with  the  leading  peo- 
ple at  that  place,  of  which,  by  inquiry,  he  soon  heard  all 
particulars :  told  me  he  was  on  a  visit  at  Dr.  Carney's,  a 
gentleman  of  eminence  who  lived  at  Wickham,  about  eight 
'  miles  from  Portsmouth,  to  the  left  of  Portsdown,  once  a 
physician,  but  had  given  over  practicing,  his  fortune  being 
fully  equal  to  ease  and  affluence.  Mr.  Garrick  told  me 
this  visit  had  been  for  years  promised,  but  not  paid  till 
now ;  said  that  Dr.  Garney  was  an  old  and  intimate  friend, 
and  he  should  be  there  seven  or  eight  days :  Mrs.  Garrick 
was  there,  and  had  sent  him  as  a  messenger,  with  Dr.  Gar- 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE    WILKINSON. 


191 


ney's  compliments  and  her  commands  to  insist  that  I  would 
fix  my  own  day,  and  give  them  the  pleasure  of  my  com- 
pany, which  visit  they  would  all  return.  '  So  Tate,'  says 
my  kind  Mr.  Garrick,  '  mind  you  are  well  provided,  for 
we  shall  make  it  early  in  next  week.'  This  obliging  invi- 
tation I  gladly  complied  with,  dressed  in  my  best,  and  even 
of  that  he  took  notice,  and  said  all  was  well  except  my 
buckles,  which  being  (in  the  present  fashion)  large  and  low 
on  the  instep,  he  observed  were  like  a  sailor's.  I  did  not 
want  for  lace  to  make  me  a  gentleman — not  absurd  then — 
but  such  a  figure  now  would  be  laughed  at  as  it  passed 
along. 

"  Mr.  Garrick  received  me  at  the  Doctor's  more  like  his 
son  than  merely  a  common  acquaintance  to  whom  he  meant 
only  to  be  civil  and  well-bred.  Nor  was  Mrs.  Garrick  a 
jot  less  kind  ;  she  scorned  to  be  outdone  in  courtesy,  and 
met  me  with  all  that  apparent  regard  as  if  a  beloved  rela- 
tion had  just  arrived  from  the  East  Indies.  She  was  in 
truth  a  most  elegant  woman  : — grace  was  in  her  step.  I 
was  introduced  to  Dr.  Garney,  his  lady,  and  son,  and  after 
that  to  company  who  were  quite  strangers  to  me.  They 
appeared  just  like  what  were  their  universal  well-known 
characters,  everything  that  was  good,  with  power  and  will 
to  render  their  pleasant  mansion  a  happy  resort  for  their 
acquaintance.  The  situation  was  a  little  paradise  in  every 
respect  that  art  and  nature  could  contribute  to  make  so ;  it 
appeared  to  me  to  much  advantage,  as  the  four  immediate 
miles  from  Portsmouth  till  you  reach  Hilsey  barracks,  the 
country  is  very  indifferent,  very  dreary,  and  all  confined  ; 
for  those  four  miles  are  regular  fortifications,  ditches  with 
draw-bridges,  &c. 

"  My  entertainment  for  the  day  (for  I  was  at  Dr.  Gar- 
ney's  before  twelve)  was  as  if  calculated  to  please  a  man  of 
fashion.  As  to  Mr.  Garrick,  he,  being  much  the  youngest 


192  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

man  of  the  two,  took  me  (for  two  hours)  to  every  part  of 
the. house  and  garden  that  was  worth  observation,  and  to 
the  high  top  of  an  observatory,  built  by  the  Doctor  for 
study,  curiosity,  and  prospect,  and  very  near  equal  to  that 
just  mentioned  of  Portsdown.  Mr.  Garrick  ran  and  skipped 
about  like  a  lad  of  twenty.  Indeed  civility  and  kindness 
seemed  the  study  of  the  day  from  him  and  the  whole  family, 
and  were  visibly  the  intention  and  practice  towards  me. 

"  Mr.  Garrick  had  heard  my  benefit  was  over;  but  when 
I  informed  him  I  was  to  have  another,  he  strongly  recom- 
mended my  night  to  the  patronage  of  that  worthy  family ; 
and  said  he  would  take  it  equally  as  an  obligation  conferred 
on  himself,  if  bestowed  on  his  friend  Mr.  Wilkinson  (there 
was  honor  !) — for  I  was  a  youth  whose  prosperity  he  had  at 
heart,  because  I  was  deserving ;  and  added,  unless  that  had 
been  his  opinion  of  me  he  had  not  invited  or  recom- 
mended me  to  the  honor  of  Dr.  Carney's  friendship.  After 
tea,  coffee,  &c.,  we  finished  the  evening  with  playing  at 
bowls  on  the  green  and  in  walking.  I  did  not  leave  Wick- 
ham  till  ten  o'clock  at  night,  and  received  a  general  invita- 
tion to  make  that  house  my  own,  whenever  convenience 
permitted  or  inclination  prompted  me.  I  remember  when 
talking  of  plays  that  day  after  dinner,  Mr.  Garrick  said 
that  he  never  acted  but  to  one  bad  house,  and  that  was 
Abel  Drugger,  when  there  was  not  4o/.  in  the  theatre. 

"  On  my  departure  from  this  so  truly  agreeable  day, 
never  to  be  obliterated,  Mr.  Garrick  jokingly  said,  he 
hoped  there  would  not  be  any  impropriety  in  bespeaking  a 
play  for  Friday,  '  and  we  desire,  Wilkinson,  you  will  fix  on 
a  favorite  character,  and  do  your  best  for  the  credit  of 
both;  and  d — n  it,  Tate,  Mrs.  Garrick  expects  you  will 
have  a  dish  of  tea  ready  after  her  jaunt,  by  way  of  relaxa- 
tion ;  and  if  you  disappoint  us,  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Garney,  and 
all  the  party  will  be  very  angry ;  therefore  take  care.  All 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON. 


'93 


these  requests  I  assured  him  should  be  complied  with.  He 
escorted  me  to  my  chaise,  and  for  the  second  time  in  his 
life  made  me  very  happy;  for  I  on  my  part  never  wanted 
gratitude  or  a  pride  to  obtain  his  good  opinion.  But  our 
state  of  mind  so  fluctuates  that  it  is  merely  a  common 
barometer — '  Tis  true,  'tis  pity,  and  pity  'tis  'tis  true. 

"  I  had  promised  more,  much  more  than  I  could  make 
good,  for  I  had  not  the  least  doubt  but  any  play  I  appointed 
would  be  granted  servilely  with  a  bow,  when  authorized  by 
the  name  of  Garrick.  Here,  however,  I  was  mistaken,  for 
the  next  day  when  I  summoned  the  company,  the  three  or 
four  theatrical  potentates  in  power  pertaining  to  the  petty 
state  were  very  refractory,  each  wanting  to  be  principal  on 
the  occasion ;  and  by  a  majority  of  votes  I  lost  my  lieu- 
tenancy ;  nor  was  I  myself,  for  Mr.  Moody  was  not  suffered 
on  any  account  to  be  capital  on  this  occasion. 

"  A  Mr.  White  was  the  yearly  Garrick,  whose  fame 
sounded  and  resounded  from  the  county  of  Devon  to  the 
bounds  of  Hampshire ;  therefore  neither  he  nor  they  would 
permit  any  display  of  mine,  as  each  wanted  to  be  a  sur- 
prising actor,  and  be  elected  by  due  right  of  merit  in 
Drury  Lane  house  of  lords  and  commons.  Says  the  morn- 
ing gin  and  brandy-cag  hero,  with  a  face  unknown  to 
cleanliness,  speaking  g  affectedly,  and  leaving  out  the  lettei 
r,  *  Why  is  Mr.  Wilkinson  to  appoint  a  play  for  this  Mr. 
Ga — ick?  Who  is  Mr.  Ga — ick?  Mr.  Ga— ick  has  no 
command  over  our  company  at  Portsmouth' — and  with  the 
utmost  nonchalance  said,  '  Mr.  Ga — ick  cannot,  I  think, 
be  displeased  with  my  Macheath,  though  I  want  no  faiw 
from  Mr.  Ga — ick' — assuring  himself  thereby  of  showing 
even  Garrick — '  here  you  shall  see  what  you  shall  see,'  and 
by  that  performance  be  engaged  at  Drury  Lane,  and  make 
king  David  tremble. 

"  So  Mr.  White,  who  was  lord  paramount,  after  as  much 
i  17 


194 


THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 


altercation  as  would  settle  an  address  to  the  Minister,  fixed 
on  the  'Beggar's  Opera,'  Friday — Macheath,  Mr.  White', 
and  Mr.  Moody  was  permitted  to  have  the  honor  of  acting 
Lockit.  I  was  allowed  to  give  'Tea/  and  by  particular 
desire,  to  please  me,  was  added  the  '  Author,'  Cadwallader 
by  me  of  course.  It  was  with  difficulty  I  could  reserve 
twelve  good  seats,  as  all  the  genteel  people,  on  hearing  that 
Mr.  Garrick  and  his  lady  were  to  be  there,  had  crowded 
early  to  the  theatre.  The  first  act  was  finished  and  no  Mr. 
Garrick  had  appeared,  and  on  the  second  act  beginning,- 
the  audience  and  the  performers  blamed  me  for  having 
asserted  a  falsehood,  and  by  way  of  a  hum  collected  them 
to  be  disappointed ;  and  I  really  began  to  think  it  strange 
myself;  but  to  my  great  relief  and  satisfaction,  about  the 
middle  of  the  second  act,  in  my  party  came,  which  was  to 
me  a  gratifying  triumph,  as  Mr.  White  was  very  angry  at 
having  played  so  much  of  his  Macheath  and  Mr.  Ga — ick 
not  present.  They  were  soon  settled  and  paid  much  at- 
tention, and  very  considerately  and  kindly  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Garrick  and  their  party  made  a  point  of  obliging  me  by 
conferring  strong  marks  of  approbation. 

"  Mr.  Garrick  was  so  pleased  with  my  friend  Mr.  Moody, 
in  Lockit,  that  he  sent  for  him  the  next  morning  and  en- 
gaged him  for  the  ensuing  season,  at  a  salary  of  thirty 
shillings  per  week,  because,  he  told  bini,  he  loved  to  encour- 
age merit .'  Mr.  Garrick,  after  the  farce,  came  round  and 
insisted  on  my  supping  with  them  at  the  Fountain  Tavern  ; 
the  noble  troop  of  strangers  were  much  increased  by  the 
addition  of  several  gentlemen,  particularly  as  all  the  medi- 
cal people  of  consequence  belonging  to  the  place  went  to 
pay  their  compliments  to  their  acquaintances,  Dr.  Garney 
and  family,  and  also  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garrick.  'Mrs.  Gar- 
rick very  politely  thanked  me  for  my  performance,  which 
before  so  many  people  certainly  appeared  respectful,  atten- 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE    WILKINSON,     195 

tive,  and  kind  ;  and  I  judged  my  fortune  made.  O  fickle 
fortune !  , 

"About  half-past  twelve  Mrs.  Garrick  was  for  retiring, 
and  as  one  of  Dr.  Carney's  friends  had  provided  them 
beds  (not  suffering  them  to  sleep  at  the  tavern),  Mrs.  Gar- 
rick  had  to  walk  up  the  street  to  her  destined  apartment ; 
Mr.  Garrick,  who  never  failed  in  attention  to  his  lady, 
would  not  trust  her  to  the  servant's  care  only,  but  would 
himself  attend  her,  and  then  return  back  to  the  company. 
He  observed  I  came  that  evening  in  a  very  large,  handsome 
sea-captain's  cloak,  which  he  said  he  admired  much,  and 
he  would  with  my  leave  wear  it  to  attend  Mrs.  Garrick  to 
her  residence.  All  the  ladies  went  at  the  same  time  to 
private  houses,  and  the  great  little  man  wrapped  himself  in 
my  then  honored  roquelaure.  He  soon  returned,  said  he 
was  pleased  with  his  walk,  as  it  had  made  him  so  well 
acquainted  with  my  cloak,  and  which  he  thought  would  be 
so  comfortable  for  the  winter,  that  if  he  had  one,  many  a 
walk  should  he  take  in  it,  instead  of  going  in  a  sedan  from 
Southampton  Street  to  Drury  Lane ;  therefore  requested 
I  would  not  leave  Portsmouth  without  procuring  such 
another,  and  take  it  to  London  for  him. 

"The  evening  was  very  chatty;  he  had  all  attention 
paid  him,  and  in  consequence  showed  himself  to  great 
advantage.  He  asked  me  if  I  had  seen  '  that  d — d  Foote?' 
I  answered  *No.'  To  which  he  replied  with  vehemence, 
he  hoped,  for  my  sake,  I  never  would,  if  I  could  avoid  it, 
either  see  or  speak  to  him  again.  What  all  this  violent 
kindness  proceeded  from  I  never  could  account  for.  How- 
ever, I  thought  then,  and  do  to  this  hour  think  myself 
highly  obliged;  for,  to  the  observer,  it  bore  every  mark  of 
sincere  benevolence  and  regard. 

"  It  was  three  in  the  morning  before  the  party  broke  up 
— a  very  uncommon  hour  for  him ;  he  took  a  most  cordial 


196  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

and  friendly  leave,  and  I  was  much  pleased  with  my  affable 
and  agreeable  entertainment,  and  wished  him  a  good- 
morning,  and  a  safe  and  pleasant  journey  to  his  seat  at 
Hampton  Court,  for  which  place  he  was  to  set  forward  in 
two  or  three  days.  .  .  . 

"  My  second  benefit  was  on  Wednesday — Douglas,  Tea, 
and  Lethe.  I  thought  it  would  be  rude  and  impolitic, 
when  this  ceremony  grew  near,  if  I  did  not,  according  to 
the  repeated  invitations  I  had  received,  wait  on  Dr.  Garney 
at  Wickham.  I  hired  the  handsomest  horse  I  could,  think- 
ing that  a  post  chaise  for  the  day  looked  idle  as  well  as 
extravagant  for  a  distance  of  only  eight  miles,  though  not 
a  sailor  in  Portsmouth  but  would  have  proved  a  better 
jockey  than  myself.  To  make  which  clear,  I  must  relate 
my  John  Gilpin's  ride  to  Wickham,  which  has  made  me 
dread  horseback  ever  since.  I  had  seldom  used  myself  to 
that  mode  of  traveling ;  for  though  I  had  frequently  gone 
from  London  to  Hampton  Court  and  Richmond,  yet  it 
was  generally  in  a  post  chaise,  which  ever  was  and  is  my 
favorite  method  of  passing  from  place  to  place. 

"  The  ostler  of  the  Fountain  brought  to  my  door  a  very 
fine-looking  horse,  and  observing  I  wore  spurs,  said,  '  Pray, 
Mr.  Wilkinson,  do  you  often  ride  on  horseback  ?'  I  assured 
him  the  contrary:  'Because,'  added  he,  'I  beg  then,  sir, 
as  you  are  not  a  jockey,  that  I  may  take  them  off,  for  the 
horse  I  have  brought  is  so  very  spirited,  it  may  be  danger- 
ous for  you  to  keep  them  on.'  To  this  disarrangement  I 
assented,  and  for  the  first  mile,  though  hemmed  in  by  the 
draw-bridges  and  going  on  gently,  found  it  was  very  diffi- 
cult, either  by  giving  the  horse  his  own  way  or  checking 
him,  to  keep  him  within  the  power  of  my  art  of  horseman- 
ship, but  entertained  hopes  when  I  got  into  the  open  road, 
by  putting  him  into  a  canter,  that  I  should  do  very  well. 
By  degrees  the  horse  seemed  wisely  to  comprehend  that 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON. 


197 


his  own  self-will  and  sagacity  were  superior  to  his  rider's ; 
my  ignorance  was  manifest  to  the  animal,  and  as  he  was 
folly  convinced  I  assumed  a  government  to  which  I  was 
not  by  any  means  competent,  he  was  determined  on  rebel- 
lion, and  to  himself  usurped  the  reins  of  power.  The 
renewal  of  it  to  my  fancy,  even  now,  makes  me  giddy, 
and  I  verily  believe  from  that  hour  my  brain  was  weak- 
ened, which  must  plead  some  apology ;  and  it  is  a  remark 
of  truth,  that  in  almost  every  accident,  whether  by  falls 
downstairs  or  in  the  street,  from  six  years  old  my  unfortu- 
nate head  has  always  suffered. 

"  After  having  achieved  nearly  two  miles  with  safety, 
my  Bucephalus  set  off  like  mad,  I  not  being  able  by  any 
means  to  keep  my  saddle,  but  sat  in  a  state  of  fear  and 
terror.  In  about  half  a  mile,  after  he  had  got  into  this 
wild  freak,  in  the  narrow  road,  I  met  the  London  wagon, 
where  with  care  there  was  scarce  room  to  pass  by  it,  but 
to  which  this  dreadful  beast  rushed.  The  wheel  stopped 
and  checked  my  right  leg  and  brought  me  to  the  ground, 
and  on  my  fall  the  horse's  hind  foot  struck  my  jaw,  and 
made  it  bleed  most  plentifully.  Providentially,  the  men 
stopped  the  wagon,  but  almost  against  their  will,  for  they 
could  not  conceive,  from  the  fury  of  the  beast,  and  the  sup- 
posed misguided  rage  of  the  rider,  but  I  was  some  foolish 
mad  fellow  eager  to  show  my  horsemanship,  neck  or  nothing. 

"  The  wagoners  behaved  with  more  civility  than  is  usual 
for  such  animals ;  for  in  general  they  certainly  are  merely 
such.  They  only  damned  me  for  a  fewl;  for  they  were 
right  atre  I  man  be  mad  to  ride  dumbbfast  to  fright  the 
toagon  tike.  Bat  when  I  declared  my  innocence,  as  to  any 
intended  violence  on  their  carriage,  and  told  them  the  real 
cause,  they  thought  it  a  very  good  joke — and  pronounced 
'  I  should  never  be  a  sportsman  sufficient  to  win  the  King's 
plate  at  Newmarket.' 

17* 


198  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

11  While  I  was  wiping  off  the  dust  and  blood,  and  was 
really  much  bruised,  and  with  reason  alarmed — for  had  not 
the  wagoners,  from  seeing  Gilpin's  certain  danger,  stopped 
the  wagon,  I  must  have  experienced  a  shocking  death,  by 
being  crushed  under  the  wheels,  near  thirty  years  before 
this  day  of  relation,  or  at  best  I  could  only  have  existed  as 
a  dreadful  spectacle — the  gay  mettled  courser,  having  dis- 
engaged himself  of  his  rider,  was  all  the  time  feeding  on 
such  odd  bits  of  grass  as  he  could  find.  I  was  helped  on 
his  back,  and  reassumed  the  reins  with  as  much  ease  as  if 
no  accident  had  occurred,  and  I  had  only  mounted  a  lady's 
gentle  pad. 

"  The  wagoners  desired  me  not  to  ride  again  like  a  devil 
upon  the  king's  highroad,  for  I  might  have  seen  wagon  like, 
and  at  the  same  time  have  seen  there  was  not  room  to  pass 
it ;  and  poor  beast  was  so  quiet,  it  must  have  been  all  my 
fault.  I  bore  this  second  lecture  with  patience,  so  thanked 
Mr.  Wagoner,  and  proceeded  on  my  journey  ;  for  as  to 
dwelling  longer  on  my  ignorance,  it  was  sufficiently  ex- 
plained, and  would  have  only  increased  their  contempt, 
not  created  pity,  and  therefore  would  be  a  loss  of  time  to 
us  all,  as  our  journey's  end  was  quite  contrary  to  attain. 

"I  determined  to  be  very  steady,  and  not  venture  on 
the  perilous  canter  any  more ;  a  gentle  trot  at  the  most 
was  to  suffice,  and  that  with  all  precaution.  We  were  jog- 
ging on,  as  if  by  mutual  agreement,  with  great  regularity 
and  composure,  when  an  officer,  who  was  going  to  Hilsey 
barracks,  cried  out,  'Your  friend  SCOTT  dines  at  Hilsey — 
do  come  to  dinner,  Wilkinson,' — and  went  galloping  on  ; 
my  fiery-footed  steed,  scorning  to  be  outdone  in  courtesy, 
obeyed  the  summons  with  the  utmost  swiftness,  not  by  any 
means  waiting  to  hear  or  consult  my  opinion  as  to  the  in- 
vitation, while,  Gilpin  like,  I  held  by  the  pummel  of  the 
saddle  out  of  breath,  and  expected  every  instant  my  neck 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.     199 

would  be  broke.  I  was  at  the  last  gasp  with  this  devil  of 
a  horse;  for  the  officer  had  no  thought  bat  I  was  deter- 
mined to  outride  him  and  be  at  Hikey  the  first.  I  found 
pulling,  or  holding,  like  Major  Sturgeon,  by  the  mane,  was 
all  to  no  purpose,  and  every  moment  supposed  I  should  be 
sprawling  on  the  ground ;  but  on  seeing  the  turnpike  I 
cried  out  aloud,  *  Shut  the  gate !  Murder !  murder :  For 
God's  sake  shut  the  gate  !*  At  first  they  did  not  compre- 
hend me,  but  on  observing  my  awkward  manner  of  riding 
on  this  my  flying-horse,  and  my  continued  cry  of  '  Shut 
the  gate,'  they  did  so  before  I  got  to  it ;  then  another  fear 
instantly  arose,  which  was  that  of  the  horse's  despising  the 
barred  gate  and  leaping  over  it,  which  if  he  had,  there 
would  have  been  one  Major  Sturgeon  less  in  the  theatrical 
world ;  but  fortunately  the  creature,  either  in  pity  to  my 
fears  or  regard  for  his  own  limbs,  or  from  the  custom  of 
stopping  at  the  gate  (which  I  cannot  pronounce  .  halted 
there,  and  that  suddenly,  on  a  supposition,  may  be,  that 
the  King's  duty  was  necessary  to  be  loyally  paid :  to 
which  he  was  possibly  daily  accustomed ;  and  to  my  aston- 
ishment, in  the  midst  of  horrors,  he  pleasingly  surprised 
me  by  so  doing,  for  be  seemed  equal  to  any  mad  exploit 
whatever.  Here  I  stayed  and  got  a  glass  of  water,  and  from 
the  turnpike  for  about  a  mile  to  the  left,  on  the  irregular 
paths  of  Portsdown,  I  expected  be  had  settled  to  reason, 
and  had  tried  my  skill  in  horsemanship  sufficiently  :  but  on 
the  up-hill  and  down-dale  once  more  he  began,  and  more 
swift  than  ever,  without  a  chance  of  my  meeting  with  any 
cottage,  or  modern  shepherd  or  shepherdess,  in  case  of 
accident  or  misfortune,  having  quite  left  the  public  road. 
For  me  to  expatiate  on  the  wonders  I  this  day  performed  in 
the  noble  art  of  vaulting  horsemanship,  might  make  young 
Astley  fearful  of  a  rival,  and  dare  me  to  a  trial  of  skill. 
The  sensible  beast  certainly  knew  what  an  insignificant 


200  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

Major  he  had  on  his  back,  and  determined  to  make  a  frisky 
day  of  it  at  my  expense.  I  was  in  hopes,  till  he  took  his 
third  unlucky  frolic,  all  would  have  been  well,  and  that 
the  headstrong  servant  was  sensible  of  the  errors  he  had 
already  committed,  and  I  began  to  fancy  myself  an  elegant 
prancer,  when  he  rapidly  flew  with  me  to  a  precipice  of 
very  considerable  height,  where  I  thought  he  would,  for  his 
own  sake,  have  stopped  his  career;  but  to  convince  me  he 
was  superior  to  fear,  and  scorned  even  imminent  danger, 
down  he  plunged  headlong  to  the  bottom. 

"It  needs  not  the  traveler's  talent  to  point  mine  out  as 
a  frightful  situation  in  every  respect,  as  myself  and  horse 
had  taken  the  dreadful  plunge;  I  in  idea  gave  up  the  ghost, 
thinking  all  was  inevitably  over,  and  that  there  was  not 
a  possibility  of  life  being  preserved ;  this  was  momentary. 
Ease  from  pain  brings  death,  and  so  with  me.  It  was,  I 
guess,  some  minutes  before  I  recovered  from  the  shock  of 
the  fall,  or  to  the  least  ray  of  restored  senses ;  but,  thank 
God  Almighty,  they  did  return  by  degrees,  though  sickness 
was  violent,  the  horse  still  lying  on  my  thigh,  my  head  was 
on  the  hilly  part,  and  the  horse's  feet  at  the  bottom,  which 
kept  part  of  his  weight  from  crushing  my  thigh. 

"After  finding  I  had  so  miraculously  escaped  with  life,  I 
was  fearful,  as  my  right  leg  and  thigh  felt  so  much  stunned, 
that  they  were  broken  ;  but  by  degrees,  pulling  at  the 
rough  hill  gently,  I  got  my  left  foot  equal  to  push  on  the 
saddle  and  so  relieved  myself,  but  yet  doubted  whether  I 
was  not  in  the  Elysian  Fields ;  I  was  in  such  a  state  of  per- 
turbation and  misery,  with  pain,  sickness,  and  wonder,  that 
it  was  a  delirium.  When  I  was  more  collected,  I  looked 
at  the  horse,  as  he  lay  almost  lifeless,  and  by  his  not  mak- 
ing any  attempt  to  move,  I  feared  his  limbs  had  suffered, 
and  that,  I  supposed,  would  make  it  an  expensive  ride, 
added  to  my  surgeon's  bill.  Staying  there  would  not  do 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.     2Oi 

at  any  rate,  so  as  soon  as  I  was  able  to  get  on  my  legs  I  slid 
to  the  bottom,  took  hold  of  the  bridle,  and  the  horse  with 
great  difficulty  arose,  and  was  as  patient  as  a  pet  lamb :  I 
winded  him  round  and  round  the  rugged  place  as  well  and 
as  gently  as  I  could,  till  by  slow  degrees,  aided  by  that 
sweet  maid  Patience,  I  got  him  out  of  the  dreary  depth, 
and  once  more  attained  a  part  appertaining  to  Portsdown 
Hills.  Notwithstanding  my  third  disaster,  I  again  had 
courage  to  mount,  being  only  about  two  miles  from  Dr. 
Carney's,  and  we  proceeded  with  all  the  regularity  and 
gravity  of  Don  Quixote  to  the  wished-for  villa,  and  arrived 
at  it  after  all  my  fatigues,  troubles,  and  hair-breadth  scapes, 
and  falling  headlong  down  the  deep  Tarpeian  rock.  The 
Doctor  and  his  son  were  out,  and  not  expected  home  till 
dinner.  When  I  had  related  the  story  of  my  woes  to  Mrs. 
Garney,  she  was  greatly  alarmed,  and  wished  much  for  the 
Doctor's  returning  that  he  might  immediately  bleed  me, 
which  she  insisted  was  a  ceremony  necessary  to  be  instantly 
performed.  I  agreed  in  opinion  with  her ;  but  as  the 
Doctor's  coming  might  not  be  for  two  hours,  I  retired  to 
be  brushed,  washed,  &c.,  which  was  absolutely  needful, 
and  it  much  refreshed  me.  I  then  desired  the  favor  of  a 
bottle  of  Madeira,  but  Mrs.  Garney  did  not  approve  of  it; 
and,  instead  of  that  potation,  recommended  more  harts- 
horn and  water;  but  I  told  her  that  I  had,  on  my  arrival, 
been  well  provided  by  her  kindness  with  plenty  of  the 
watery  element,  and  now  really  wished  for  something  else, 
and  thought  Madeira  would  do  wonders.  She  shook  her 
head  on  hearing  this,  and  went  out  of  the  room.  As  I  was 
preparing  myself  for  dinner,  she  politely  sent  me  the  Ma- 
deira, and  I  most  eagerly  drank  a  full  tumbler  of  it,  and  it 
revived  me  wonderfully ;  but  prudence  prevented  my  in- 
creasing  the  draught,  for  by  my  good  will,  as  I  was  so 
thirsty  and  hot,  and  the  Madeira  had  gone  down  so  deli- 
i* 


202  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

ciously,  I  could  have  finished  the  bottle ;  but  well  it  was  I 
did  not,  for  in  my  hurried  state  of  spirits,  and  being  bruised 
from  head  to  foot,  it  might  have  proved  a  more  certain  road 
to  death  than  any  dagger  I  had  ever  struck,  or  any  draught 
of  poison  I  had  ever  swallowed,  as  a  stage  patriot,  for  the 
good  of  my  country. 

"  The  Doctor  and  his  son  did  not  return  till  near  four, 
above  two  hours  after  I  had  arrived  on  my  prancing  Bu- 
cephalus. I  was  well  refreshed,  and  my  face  was  in  toler- 
able order,  all  considered,  though  it  was  much  scratched 
and  wounded.  Mrs.  Garney  represented  my  story  in  most 
tragical  colors  ;  which,  had  it  been  so  well  told  before  I 
had  drunk  the  Madeira,  she  might  have  gained  my  consent 
for  being  bled,  as  I  expected  it  after  the  violent  fall  I  had 
endured :  but  on  growing  better,  and  thinking  the  Ma- 
deira had  done  everything  that  was  necessary,  all  reasons 
or  persuasions  were  in  vain,  for  I  obstinately  refused,  and 
said  I  wished  for  dinner,  and  that  was  preferable  to  being 
bled.  At  last  the  Doctor's  kind  intentions  yielded  to  my 
petulance,  and  the  sight  of  the  good  dinner  seemed  to  be 
the  most  prevailing  argument  on  all  sides ;  the  lancets 
were  changed  for  knives  and  forks,  and  I  performed  with 
those  weapons  more  dexterously  than  I  or  any  person  at 
table  expected.  We  drank  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Garrick's 
health. 

"The  Doctor  inquired  when  my  benefit  was;  I  told 
him :  he  asked  for  tickets,  which  I  could  not  have  thought 
of  carrying  there  in  my  pocket,  because  a  gentleman  had 
invited  me  to  dinner.  However,  he  begged  leave  to  pre- 
sent me  with  three  guineas  for  three  box  tickets,  which  I 
was  to  send  him.  I  accepted  the  king's  pictures,  and  of 
course  sent  three  scraps  of  paper  in  exchange.  He  desired 
I  would  come  once  more  before  I  went  to  London  :  I  ac- 
cordingly visited  that  pleasant,  hospitable  spot  again,  but 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE    WILKINSON.      203 

it  was  in  a  post  chaise,  not  on  horseback.  No  more  of  that 
— no  more  of  that. 

"  On  my  return  the  horse  either  walked  or  went  a  gentle 
trot  all  the  way  to  Portsmouth,  and  when  in  the  public 
road,  though  several  gentlemen  were  returning  from  their 
evening's  ride,  he  was  as  easily  conducted  as  if  he  had 
never  been  obstreperous.  Every  one  was  astonished  when 
I  related  my  adventures ;  and,  but  that  they  had  a  good 
opinion  of  my  veracity,  and  seeing  the  marks  on  my  face, 
and  my  naming  the  wagoners  and  turnpike-man  as  wit- 
nesses,  my  story  would  not  have  been  credited ;  for  the 
horse  was  so  gentle,  and  so  easily  guided,  they  said  that 
every  one  must  conclude  the  rider  was  the  most  to  blame. 

"The  want  of  judgment  in  me  might  in  part  have  been 
the  cause  ;  but  from  the  circumstance  of  the  ostler's  taking 
off  my  spurs,  it  was  evident  he  treated  his  riders  every 
now  and  then  with  a  frolic ;  and  I  guess  his  fall  had  made 
him  feel  pain,  and  find  he  was  in  an  eiror  when  he  cut 
that  caper  of  enchantment  which  bereft  me  of  my  senses ; 
and  had  he  not  had  that  fall  I  think  he  would  have  finished 
my  career,  and  effectually  have  prevented  my  ever  seeing 
old  Portsmouth  again. 

"I  do  not  recollect  many  particulars  relating  to  this 
summer  campaign  worth  setting  down,  so  will  suppose  my 
Portsmouth  engagement  ended,  and  greatly  to  my  advan- 
tage. But  now,  though  not  an  old  man,  melancholy  re- 
flection tells  me  that,  were  I  to  set  my  foot  in  that  town, 
there  is  not  one  man  or  woman,  gentleman  or  gentlewoman 
existing  whom  I  should  know.  All  gone  !  gone !  But 
why  should  I  moralize,  reflect  on,  or  regret  the  certain  fate 
of  all  mankind?  Is  there  a  wonder  in  so  well  proved  a 
certainty?" 


204  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

V. 

Nothing  is  more  pleasant  than  the  shrewd  old  actor's  re- 
marks on  the  habits  and  manners  of  his  profession :  and 
players  of  our  day  who  are  addicted  to  what  they  call 
"gagging"  might  profitably  consider  his  reflections  on  the 
subject,  as  well  as  the  amusing  illustrations  he  furnishes. 

"  Nothing  but  severe  reprobation  and  anger  will  effectu- 
ally cure  laughing  at  the  audience,  and  entertaining  them- 
selves with  low  jokes ;  .  .  .  and  too  often  the  manager  is 
blamed  for  not  preventing  such  impromptus,  which  is  not 
in  his  power ;  and  even  the  females  staring  into  the  stage- 
boxes  and  smiling  at  their  acquaintance,  acting  all  to  the 
pit,  not  directing  their  discourse  to  the  person  on  the  stage, 
and  Horatio,  though  so  enjoined  to  attend  the  business  of 
the  play,  employs  all  that  time  by  apparently  numbering 
the  house.  If  the  actors  wish  for  regard,  they  should  treat 
the  theatre  each  morning  certainly  with  the  same  degree  of 
respect  they  would  observe  in  the  most  common  school- 
room ;  rehearse  the  play  with  serious  attention,  and  not 
with  riot  and  discord  ;  thereby  giving  the  stage  opponents 
such  full  scope  to  exclaim,  that  the  theatre  proves  itself  a 
school  of  anarchy  and  disorder  by  the  perpetual  slander 
many  performers  bestow  on  their  colleagues ;  for  a  rol. 
more  in  one  house  on  a  benefit  than  in  another  will  raise 
a  jealousy  not  to  be  subdued  for  a  month.  A  little  appli- 
cation to  the  study  of  authors  and  criticisms  in  general 
would  mend  many  actors  and  actresses ;  but  rehearsals  too 
frequently  resemble  a  game  at  school-boys'  play,  and  in- 
stead of  preparing  for  the  stage  like  gentlemen,  they  are 
acting  in  the  style  and  behavior  of  Christmas  street  country 
mummers, 

"Do  not  let  the  reader  conceive  the  theatre  such  a  bear- 
garden as  to  render  this  picture  necessary  for  the  performers 


THE  ADVENTURES  QF  TATE   WILKINSON.     205 

in  the  country  in  general.  Far  from  it ;  I  am  only  speaking 
the  sentiments  of  liberal  minds,  who  are  hurt  at  seeing  such 
vulgar  and  unpardonable  behavior  from  a  few  egregiously 
ill-bred,  whom  reasoning  would  only  inflame  and  make  their 
company  still  worse :  and  the  audience  have  often  too  much 
patience  when  they  pass  over  such  repeated  faults  by  too 
much  indulgence,  which  the  wrong-headed  actor  places  lo 
approbation  and  his  own  merit.  .  .  . 

"Actors  should  never  run  into  debt  (a  hard  injunction)  ! 
for  they  may  be  assured  a  day  of  payment  will  be  expected, 
and  what  is  worse,  that  one  such  black  sheep  gives  the  idea 
of  dishonesty  to  a  whole  troop;  which  is  very  hard,  and 
might  with  propriety  be  thrown  on  any  other  profession, 
that  many  should  be  blamed  for  the  faults  of  a  few. 

"  Running  into  debts  that  can  be  avoided  lessens  in  every 
degree  the  actor's  darling  passion,  that  is,  his  ideal  conse- 
quence ;  and  there  is  another  that  actors  incur,  which  mani- 
fests negligence,  and  is,  as  Mr.  Garrick  told  Shnter,  not  to 
be  too  comical.  O  comical  actor  I  it  is  a  debt  and  a  dangerous 
debt,  not  easily  forgot  or  forgiven  ;for  how  can  the  performer 
think  that  though  perhaps  the  town  last  night  laughed  and  gave 
indulgence,  that  he  is  free  t  so  far  from  it,  he  has  lost  the 
golden  ore,  their  good  opinion,  and  it  will  take  a  long  time  to 
regain  it:  for  the  actor  is  dreadfully  -wrong  who*  thinks,  be- 
cause himself  and  friends  laugh  at  what  is  termed  jokes  out 
of  all  time,  place,  and  character,  it  is  forgiven  in  general,  and 
not  set  down  against  him,  and  mentioned  for  a  tweh:emonth 
at  least  by  the  judicious ;  and  though  this  may  be  cruel,  it 
is  in  some  degree  just,  and  should  not  be  so  frequently  de- 
served. I  would  have  all  thirst  for  applause,  tut  let  the  means 
pursued  beprofessional  and  characteristic  to  deserve  it. 

"  In  London  an  actor  must  be  at  least  near  right  before 
he  is  established ;  out  of  London  an  actor  seldom  gets  into 
favor  or  popularity,  but  he  too  frequently  in  consequence 
iS 


206  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

leaves  the  right  road  for  the  wrong,  that  is,  he  studies  to 
quit  nature,  and  endeavors  to  obtain  false  applause  by  any 
means,  no  matter  how  acquired  : — 'that  is  villainous,'  and 
in  the  end  it  destroys  the  good  seeds  of  promise  and  proves 
a  pitiful  ambition  in  the  knave  that  uses  it,  be  he  a  tragedian 
or  comedian  ;  for  the  same  ill-judged  means  may  be  prac- 
ticed as  much  almost  by  the  one  as  the  other.  In  the  green- 
room the  jokes  on  this  occasion  are  'bringing  them  down;' 
and  'we  have  been  running  our  lengths.' 

"  Laughing  on  the  stage  at  our  own  witticisms  is  another 
lamentable,  not  comical  fault : — not  that  I  would  mean  to 
be  so  rigid  as  not  to  allow  for  an  accident,  or  once  in  a 
way,  a  well-timed  joke,  provided  it  suits  time,  place,  and 
character.  If  the  joke  be  ever  so  good,  yet  if  the  actor  is 
performing  as  a  Spaniard  or  a  Frenchman,  and  reprobates 
either,  all  wit  or  sense  is  lost  and  the  actor  truly  censur- 
able." 

As  an  illustration  of  the  vice  of  such  freedoms,  he  tells 
the  following  story,  which  is  quite  a  little  picture  : — 

"My  engagement  with  Mossop  having  terminated,  I 
intended  soon  leaving  my  old  favorite  spot,  which  was  now 
become  a  home ;  but  was  detained  by  Mrs.  Abington's 
requesting  I  would  stay  and  assist  her  in  a  scene  of  fun  and 
humor  for  her  benefit  night,  which  she  had  complied  with 
at  the  request  of  her  really  good  benefactor  Lord  Miltown. 
Mrs.  Abington  had  often  entertained  several  genteel  parties 
with  some  droll  stories  of  a  good  gentlewoman  she  named 
Mrs.  Fuz.  I  had  been  on  parties  with  Lord  Miltown  and 
Lord  Clanbrassil,  when  in  high  spirits  and  good-humor, 
and  had  diverted  myself  and  the  company  with  stories  and 
anecdotes  of  my  dear  favorite  old  lady,  Mrs.  White,  of 
whom  the  reader  must  by  this  time  have  formed  some  idea, 
by  referring  back  to  what  I  have  before  related  of  my 
darling  old  gentlewoman's  singularities. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.     307 

11  Mrs.  Abington  had  promised  Lord  Miltown  she  would 
produce  herself  as  Mrs.  Fuz,  and  she  would  prevail  on  her 
friend  Wilkinson  to  do  the  same,  as  Mrs.  Jenkins  (alias 
Mrs.  White) ;  which  information  his  Lordship  made  known 
to  all  the  families  of  distinction  in  Dublin  :  bat  the  peer 
did  not  reflect  that  those  stories,  told  by  myself  or  Mrs. 
Abington  over  the  convivial  table,  gave  a  kind  of  explana- 
tory key  to  the  strange  characters ;  and  Sir  Francis  Delaval 
and  Mr.  Foote  knew  the  mother  and  the  daughters  as  well 
as  myself;  but  on  a  stage,  where  few  of  the  audience  were 
acquainted  either  with  the  character  that  Mrs.  Abington  or 
I  represented,  the  joke  was  as  difficult  to  find  oat  as  Mr. 
Bayes*  laughing  violently  at  his  own  Prince  Volscius,  where 
the  joke  lay  in  the  boots.  Her  play  was  *  Rule  a  Wife.' 
Between  the  play  and  force,  an  interlude  called  Mrs.  Jen- 
kins and  Mrs.  Fuz.  Mrs.  Jenkins,  Mr.  Wilkinson;  Mis. 
Fur,  Mrs.  Abington.  Before  the  night  came,  we  often 
entertained  ourselves  with  extempore  rehearsals,  and  con- 
ceived ourselves  easy,  perfect,  and  entertaining.  Mrs.  Jen- 
kins was  dressed  before  the  play  concluded.  Mrs.  Abing- 
ton, after  an  epilogue  of  shrewd  turn,  and  spoke  with  great 
point,  retired  to  dress  as  Mrs.  Fuz;  our  dress  had  been 
before  well  considered.  It  was  a  crowded  house ;  part  of 
the  pit  laid  into  the  boxes.  Mrs.  Abington  had  ordered 
an  excellent  supper,  superbly  lighted,  &c.,  and  had  wrote 
a  little  introductory  dialogue-scene  in  the  street  between 
two  gentlemen,  giving  a  description  of  a  party  they  were 
that  night  invited  to,  and  where  two  extraordinary  charac- 
ters were  asked  for  the  entertainment  of  the  lady's  guests, 
at  whose  house  the  rendezvous  was  appointed;  but  each 
person  was  enjoined  to  lay  their  fingers  on  their  lips,  and 
not  to  laugh  on  any  account  whatever,  but  to  pay  every 
mark  of  attention  and  approbation,  in  order  that  the  two 
ladies  might  with  more  unlimited  freedom  display  their 


208  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

different  absurdities.  After  the  dialogue  was  finished,  the 
scene  was  drawn  up,  and  discovered  several  well-dressed 
ladies  and  gentlemen  at  supper.  Miss  Ambrose  was  sitting 
at  my  elbow  as  the  daughter  of  Mrs.  Jenkins,  who  intended 
bringing  her  on  the  stage ; — Mrs.  Fuz  was  seated  at  one 
front  corner  of  a  long  supper-table,  and  I  was  at  the  other: 
Mrs.  Keif  was  at  the  head  as  lady  of  the  ceremonies,  which 
was  the  only  good  part,  for  there  were  the  servants  with 
wine,  and  she  displayed  on  the  occasion  her  being  mistress 
of  a  good  knife  and  fork.  On  being  discovered,  and  look- 
ing scornfully  at  each  other,  our  two  figures  had  for  some 
time  a  fine  effect ;  loud  fits  of  laughter  succeeded,  and  from 
these  great  expectations  were  formed. 

"  Mrs.  Fuz  then  desired  Mrs.  Jenkins  to  begin — Mrs. 
Jenkins  desired  Mrs.  Fuz  would  do  the  same — and  we 
found  ourselves  in  an  awkward  situation  :  but  after  a  few 
efforts  the  two  ladies  entered  into  a  hobbling  short  con- 
versation, which  was  received  very  well,  from  the  eager 
opinion  that  something  better  would  follow,  for  the  audi- 
ence were  all  eyes  and  ears ;  but  we  soon  flagged.  Mrs. 
Fuz  asked  for  a  glass  of  wine — Mrs.  Jenkins  upon  my  sould 
and  I  will  have  a  glass  of  wind  too.  [One  of  the  expres- 
sions used  in  this  scene,  and  omitted  here  on  account  of 
its  coarseness,  shows  on  what  license  the  actors  of  the  day 
could  venture.]  That  did  not  do,  and  the  Abington  began 
to  feel  it  a  service  of  danger,  perplexity,  and  disgrace. 
Mrs.  Jenkins  called  to  her  daughter  to  act  Juliet,  and 
observe  her  manner,  and  to  stick  hersel/  upon  the  stage  as 
if  she  was  chilled  and  stabbed  throfout :  but  as  she  kneeled 
down  to  act  Juliet,  the  strange  old  lady,  Mrs.  Fuz,  got  up, 
gave  her  a  kick,  ran  away,  and  abandoned  Mrs.  Jenkins 
to  the  mercy  of  the  audience ;  I  was  well  aware  of  what 
might  be  expected,  and  therefore  lost  no  time,  but  arose 
and  ran  after  her,  crying  out,  'Mrs.  Fuz!  Mrs.  Fuz!' 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON. 


209 


The  audience  began  to  smoke  the  joke,  and  by  their  tokens 
of  anger  gave  the  necessary  hint  to  the  staring  ladies  and 
gentlemen  on  the  stage,  that  a  retreat  would  not  be  im- 
prudent if  they  regarded  their  safety;  so  they  ran  away 
also,  which  caused  a  laugh ;  for  it  was  evident  when  Mrs. 
Abington  and  I  had  eloped,  they  were  ignorant  what  to 
do,  not  knowing  but  that  we  meant  to  return,  for  they 
were  only  desired  to  stay  on  till  we  finished,  which  the 
performers  could  not  conceive  would  be  so  abruptly  as  we 
made  it,  but  expected  us  to  come  back  and  make  a  con- 
clusion to  our  characters. 

"I  hope  Mrs.  Abington  has  not  forgot  this,  but  will 
laugh  at  it  as  I  do ;  though  it  was  truly  awkward  at  the 
time,  and  it  really  drew  Lord  Mil  town  into  disgrace,  for 
he  had  said  so  much  in  favor  of  the  promised  scene,  that 
it  bad  been  the  conversation  of  the  preceding  week. 

"  When  the  curtain  dropped,  which  was  with  loud  marks 
of  censure,  the  ladies  universally  arose,  and,  by  way  of 
joke,  laughed  and  courtesied  to  each  other,  saying,  '  Your 
servant,  Mrs.  Jenkins;  your  servant,  Mrs.  Fuz  !' — which  I 
dare  say  vexed  his  Lordship  much,  not  only  for  his  own 
and  the  disappointment  of  the  audience,  but  more  so,  as 
any  failure  of  Mrs.  Abington's  was  mortifying  to  him ;  for 
he  was  then,  and  I  am  told  is  now,  a  most  violently 
attached  and  true  patron  and  well-wisher  of  hers." 

By-and-by  he  grew  weary  of  this  life,  and  as  we  have 
seen  became  a  country  manager.  There  his  character 
assumed  a  new  shape,  and  as  he  got  old  he  grew  eccentric, 
and  wrote  other  volumes  that  unfolded  these  fresh  experi- 
ences. Every  player  of  eminence  could  retail  stories  of 
"old  Wilkinson's"  singularities. 

A  young  probationer,  struggling  on  from  one  miserable 
barn  to  another,  but  who  showed  great  promise,  had  written 
to  offer  his  services  to  the  York  Theatre,  and  had  but  feint 
18* 


210  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

hopes  of  even  a  reply.     To  his  delight  he  received  a  favor- 
able answer : — 

"  Hull,  February  loth,  1798. 

"  Sir, — As  a  man  in  the  mountains  and  not  known  on 
'Change,  added  to  yr  express  desire  of  being  here,  con- 
vinces me  you  have  misunderstood  my  meaning,  for  en- 
gaging you  in  June  next.  I  shall  want  a  comedian  that 
can  strike  the  audience  well  as  to  say,  this  will  do,  and 
then  advance  yr  situation  ;  and  as  to  coming  into  a  first 
situation,  and  the  business  you  wrote  for,  no  such  thing 
can  be  complied  with.  Mr.  Emery  is  in  full  possession  of 
fame  and  characters,  so  suit  yr  convenience  as  to  staying 
away.  .  .  .  but  you  will  have  full  scope  until  the  end  of 
October,  and  then  I  can  judge  of  continuance  or  raising 
of  terms,  according  to  yr  desert  and  success,  for  a  good 
comedian  only  will  do,  if  I  can  get  him. 

"  Yours,  &c. 

"TATE  WILKINSON. 

"  Open  at  York  on  Thursday  next. 

•«  Mr. Mathews,  Theatre,  Carmarthen,  Wales." 


"  Sir, — Don't  let  either  of  us  place  too  great  a  reliance. 
I  will  engage  you  at  i/.  per  week,  until  the  first  Saturday  in 
June,  1799.  But,  to  promise  an  increase  of  salary,  and  a 
certain  line  of  business,  where  I  have  much  at  stake,  would 
not  be  prudent  on  my  part  to  give.  Therefore,  as  to  an 
additional  salary,  or  a  cast  of  parts — unseen,  unknown — I 
cannot  think  of  giving  any  such  promise,  as  I  must  cast  the 
parts  as  I  judge.(  You  may  have  great  talents — moderate, 
or  indifferent — all  which  must  be  judged  by  the  manager 
and  the  public.  Therefore,  all  the  favor  I  have  to  ask  is, 
whether  you  determine  on  being  at  York  August  the  iSth. 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.     2II 

Don't  neglect  your  interest ;  bat  don't  let  roe  rely  on  your 
coming  and  then  not  make  your  appearance ; — may  be  dis- 
agreeable not  only  at  the  time,  but  as  to  other  engagements. 
Mr.  Penson  leaves  me  in  August. 

"  I  am,  Sir,  wishing  you  every  success,  yours,  &c. 

"TATE  WILKINSON. 

"  If  you  possess  near  the  merit  you  lead  me  to  expect, 
you  must  not  fear  a  good  engagement  here,  tkfrf,  or  any 
rohere.  You  are  sure  I  wish  you  to  please.  No  managers 
part  with  favorite  performers,  but  he  must  wish  the  new 
ones  to  succeed. 

MATHEWS 
MR.  MOUNTAIN  (erased),  JON. 

MATHEWS'S, 

MR.  MOUNTAIN'S  (erased),  Bookseller, 
No.  18,  Strand, 

London." 

Here  will  be  noticed  a  special  eccentricity  of  the  mana- 
ger's, that  of  forgetting,  compounding,  or  transforming 
proper  names. 

The  young  man  found  the  company  at  Pontefract,  and 
in  some  trepidation  waited  on  the  manager.  "  Come  in  !" 
— the  visitor  obeyed.  "  Tale  was  shuffling  about  the  room 
with  a  small  ivory-handled  brush  in  one  hand,  and  a  silver 
buckle  in  the  other,  in  pretended  industry,  whistling  during 
his  employment  after  the  fashion  of  a  groom  whilst  curry- 
ing and  rubbing  down  a  horse.  It  appeared  that  it  was 
his  custom  daily  to  polish  his  own  buckles ;  for  as  these 
particular  buckles  were  especial  favorites,  from  having 
been  the  gift  of  his  friend  the  immortal  Garrick,  and  were 
worn  constantly  in  his  dress-shoes,  he  was  chary  of  allow- 
ing others  the  privilege  of  touching  them ;  in  fact,  he 
never  trusted  them  out  of  his  own  hands.  It  was  a  minute 


212  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

at  least  before  Tate  took  the  least  notice  of  the  newcomer, 
who,  in  the  short  interval  had  opportunity  to  observe  the 
ludicrous  effect  of  Tale's  appearance,  which  was  indeed 
irresistibly  droll.  He  was  still  in  his  morning's  dishabille, 
his  coat-collar  was  thrown  back  upon  his  shoulders,  and 
his  Brown  George  on  one  side,  exposing  the  ear  on  the 
other,  and  cocked  up  behind  so  as  to  leave  the  bare  nape 
of  his  neck  open  to  observation.  His  hat  was  put  on  side 
foremost,  and  as  forward  and  awry  as  his  wig ;  both  were 
perked  on  his  head  very  insecurely,  as  it  seemed  to  the 
observer. 

"  Mr.  Mathews,  after  an  unsuccessful  cough,  and  a  few 
significant  hems,  which  seemed  to  solicit  welcome  and 
attention,  ventured  at  last  upon  an  audible  'Good-morn- 
ing, sir.'  This  had  its  effect,  and  the  following  colloquy 
ensued.  (  Good-morning,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Mathews.  'Oh! 
good-morning,  Mr.  Meadows,'  replied  Tate,  very  dog- 
gedly. 'My  name  is  Mathews,  sir.'  'Ay,  I  know,' 
wheeling  suddenly  round,  and  looking  at  him  for  the 
first  time  with  scrutinizing  earnestness  from  head  to  foot. 
Winking  his  eyes  and  lifting  his  brows  rapidly  up  and 
down,  a  habit  with  him  when  not  pleased,  he  uttered  a 
long-drawn  'Ugh!'  and  exclaimed,  'What  a  maypole! 
Sir,  you're  too  tall  for  low  comedy.'  'I'm  sorry,  sir,' 
said  the  poor  disconcerted  youth. 

"  '  What's  the  use  of  being  sorry  ?  You  speak  too  quick.' 
The  accused  anxiously  assured  him  that  he  would  endeavor 
to  mend  that  habit.  'What,'  said  Tate,  snappishly, 
'  by  speaking  quicker,  I  suppose.'  Then,  looking  at  Mr. 
Mathews,  he,  as  if  again  in  soliloquy,  added,  '  I  never  saw 
anybody  so  thin  to  be  alive  ! !  Why,  sir,  one  hiss  would 
blow  you  off  the  stage.'  This  remark  sounding  more  like 
good-humor  than  anything  he  had  uttered,  the  comedian 
ventured,  with  a  faint  smile,  to  observe  that  he  hoped  he 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE    WILKINSON. 


213 


should  not  get  that  one — when  Tate,  with  affected  or  real 
anger,  replied,  'You'll  get  a  great  many,  sir.  Why,  sir, 
I've  been  hissed — the  great  Mr.  Garrick  has  been  hissed  ; 
it's  not  very  modest  in  you  to  expect  to  escape,  Mr.  Moun- 
tain.' 'Mathews,  sir,'  interposed  the  miscalled.  'Well, 
Mathews  Mountain, '  '  No,  sir — '  '  Have  you  a  quick 
study,  Mr.  Maddox?'  asked  Tate,  interrupting  him  once 
more.  Mathews  gave  up  the  ineffectual  attempt  to  preserve 
his  proper  name, 'and  replied  at  once  to  the  last  question, 
'  I  hope  so,  sir.'  '  Why'  (in  a  voice  of  thunder)  '  arn't  you 
sure?'  'Ye-e-es,  sir,'  asserted  his  terrified  and  harassed 
victim.  Tate  shuffled  up  and  down  the  room,  whistling 
and  brushing  rapidly,  looking  from  time  to  time  with 
evident  dissatisfaction,  if  not  disgust,  at  the  object  of  his 
scrutiny;  and,  after  several  of  these  furtive  glances,  he 
suddenly  desisted  from  his  occupation,  and  once  more 
stopped  abruptly  before  him. 

"All  this  was  inauspicious;  and,  after  the  interview  had 
lasted  a  few  minutes  longer,  Tate  strongly  recommended 
the  young  man's  return  to  his  father,  and  an  'honest  trade,' 
as  he  said.  All  that  could  be  gained  by  Mr.  Mathews  was 
the  manager's  slow  leave  to  let  him  enter  upon  his  proba- 
tion and  at  least  have  a  trial  before  condemnation." 

Nothing,  however,  could  remove  the  manager's  preju- 
dice, or  better  his  opinion  of  the  postulant,  as  will  be  seen 
from  the  following  delightful  and  genuine  communica- 
tion : 

"  I  am  dangerously  ill,  therefore  unable  to  attend  to  the- 
atrical grievances.  After  a  2d  and  a  3d  time  seeing  yr  per- 
formance, I  aver' d  and  do  aver  that  misfortune  has  placed 
an  insurmountable  bar  as  to  the  possibility  of  yr  ever  being 
capable  of  sustaining  the  first  line  of  comic  business.  Mr. 
Emery  I  requested  to  inform  you  of  the  same  at  Wakefield, 
who  was  entirely  of  my  opinion.  For  the  paralytic  stroke, 


214  THE   ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

so  far  from  a  comic  effect,  renders  yr  performance  seriously 
disagreeable.  I  told  Mr.  Hill  that  not  all  the  Mirrors  in 
the  kingdom,  in  print  or  in  glass,  ever  can  establish  you  for 
a  first  comedian.  If  God  wills  it,  it  will  be  so,  but  no  other 
order  or  interest  can  effect  such  a  miracle.  If  you  were  to 
hear  how  you  are  spoken  of  (ask  Mr.  Jarman),  you  would 
not  rely  too  much  on  yr  unbounded  applause  at  Hull.  If 
you  think  the  company  is  in  general  approv'd,  you  are 
mistaken  ;  am  sorry  to  be  told,  quite  the  contrary.  Yr 
Riindy  is  very  bad  indeed  ;  so  is  Motley.  Rundy  they  have 
been  used  to  see  really  well  acted.  .  .  .  Do  you  think  I 
engaged  Mr.  Hatton  to  hurt  you  ?  On  my  honor,  no.  If 
you  say,  why  add  to  my  expense  ?  I  answr,  necessity,  and 
full  conviction  stared  me  in  the  face.  Try  by  degrees  to 
be  useful,  and  by  such  means  get  into  respect.  Yr  worth 
as  a  man  (as  far  as  I  know)  I  much  esteem ;  but  as  a  first- 
rate  actor,  you  must  try  some  more  discerning  leader,  and 
officer  some  other  troop.  I  think  '  Feeble  Old  Men'  is  a 
cast  you  are  most  likely  to  be  useful  in.  The  pain  I  have 
suffered  at  my  breast  in  scratching  these  lines  is  more 
piercing  than  what  you  feel  at  the  loss  of  Frank.  You 
have  youth,  sobriety,  and  assiduity,  which  sometimes  does 
wonders.  Wish  Emery  had  been  more  open  with  you.  I 
recommended  the  shop,  as  suited  to  you  and  Mrs.  M.;  but 
he  said  you  were  so  stage-bitten  it  would  only  vex  you.  I 
can  only  say,  Stay  and  be  happy,  or  Go  and  be  happy ;  and 
ever  be  happy ;  and  wishing  myself  better,  am  yrs  in  great 
pain. 

' '  TATE  WILKINSON.  ' ' 

His  rambling  style  of  talk  was,  however,  his  most  amus- 
ing characteristic ;  the  most  heterogeneous  subjects  being 
jumbled  together,  so  as  to  make  the  whole  almost  unintel- 
ligible. Mathews  was  fond  of  giving  one  of  these  mono- 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE   WILKINSON.     215 

logues,  from  actual  recollection,  and  it  was  curious  and 
fair  retribution  that  the  successful  mimic  should  at  last 
come  to  furnish  profitable  subject  for  mimicry  of  others. 

His  extraordinary  habit  of  wandering  in  conversation, 
with  at  the  same  time  the  faculty  he  possessed  of  making, 
to  a  patient  and  experienced  listener,  his  meaning  finally 
understood,  may  be  illustrated  by  a  curious  conversation 
which  Mathews  used  to  repeat  with  great  effect.  He  was 
seated  in  his  hall  of  audience  in  a  great  chair,  in  the  same 
uncomfortable  morning  costume  before  described — wig 
awry,  hat,  &c.  At  his  feet  reclined  a  little  spaniel  puppy, 
an  acquisition  made  on  the  road.  On  the  table  before  him 
lay  Murphy's  Life  of  Garrick,  recently  published,  a  phial 
of  cough  drops,  a  spoon  and  a  wine  glass,  &c. 

Enter  Mr.  Mathfws. — "Good-morning,  sir;  I'm  glad 
to  see  you  at  home." 

Tate,  in  a  creaking  tone.  "  Oh  !  good-morning  !  Sit 
down." 

Mathtws.  "  I  hope,  sir,  you've  enjoyed  your  trip,  and 
are  not  suffering  from  your  exertions?" 

Tate.  "  Why,  as  for  that, — not  but  I'm  glad  I  went, 
for  the  weather  was  very  fine;  and,  if  it  hadn't  been  for 
the  firing  of  the  pistols  (which  you  know  will  never  do  for 
Mrs.  Townend),  I  should  have  enjoyed  it  very  much  ; 
but,"  he  continued  with  gathering  animation,  "  to  be  sure, 
Mrs.  Siddons  was  all  in  all  •  not  but  I  have  a  great  disgust 
of  women  with  blackened  faces ; — it's  never  a  pleasing 
sight ; — and  the  Obi  women  were  hideous.  But  then  her 
dignity  was  indeed  wonderful !  and  if  you  ask  me  what  is 
a  queen,  I  should  say,  Mrs.  Siddons !  Still,  to  come  into 
one's  room  when  one's  asleep,  and  run  all  over  the  bed 
and  over  one's  face — ugh  ! — is  more  than  any  one  would 
like,  I  imagine ;  and  I  have  a  particular  horror  of  rats ! 
At  the  same  time,  when  they  carry  fire-arms  about  their 


216  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

persons,  and  let  them  off  close  to  your  ear,  all  through  a 
piece,  it  makes  your  head  ache;  and  I've  such  a  cough, 
that  I  can't  get  a  moment's  sleep  when  I'm  upon  my  back; 
and — what  with  Murphy's  Life  of  Garrick — I  really  have 
been  a  great  sufferer  all  night.  I've  been  recommended 
this  bottle  of  drops  to  cure  me,  but  I've  been  greatly  dis- 
appointed in  it.  It's  full  of  blunders  and  lies  ;  shamefully 
incorrect.  I  took  three  drops  upon  a  lump  of  sugar,  and 
it  made  me  very  sick.  Not  but — Henry  Johnston, — who, 
by-the-by,  is  a  remarkably  fine  young  man ; — but  he 
doesn't  know  what  he  writes  about Jwhen  he  asserts  that 
Garrick  had  never  played  before  the  King.  Now,  at  the 
time  'The  Chinese  Festival'  came  out,  Johnston  surprised 
me  very  much  with  his  strength ;  for,  in  the  first  place, 
he  threw  little  Lucky"  (meaning  Tucky),  "  the  black  boy, 
over  a  high  bank,  and  carried  Mr.  Orford,  who  performed 
Captain  Halpin"  (he  meant  to  say,  Mr.  Halpin,  who  per- 
formed Captain  Orford},  "on  his  back  into  a  cavern, 
lifting  him  up  as  easily  as  I  lift  this  puppy,  so  you  may 
suppose  that  he  must  be  pretty  strong ;  he's  thorough-bred, 
and  he'll  let  you  hold  him  up  by  the  tail  without  squeak- 
ing, as  you  see ;  but  then,  he's  a  fine  pantomime  actor, 
sir!  Still,  as  I  said  to  Mrs.  Wilkinson,  where  is  there  to 
be  found  such  another  as  Mrs.  Siddons?" 

The  death  of  this  worthy  old  actcr  and  manager,  which 
occurred  in  August,  1803,  was  thus  described  by  one  of 
his  players : — 

"  The  lamentable  fact  of  which  I  have  to  inform  you  is 
no  other  than  the  departure  of  our  dear  and  truly  esteemed 
old  Tate ;  who,  on  Thursday  afternoon  a  little  after  four, 
was  relieved  from  the  pain  he  had  of  late  so  severely  en- 
dured, to  receive  the  reward  of  his  integrity,  generosity, 
and  solid  virtue  of  heart. 

"  But  I  shall  not  panegyrize  a  man  whose  good  qualities 


THE  ADVENTURES  OF  TATE  WILKINSON.     217 

were  fully  known  to  yourself.  He  was  completely  worn 
out,  and  though  he  did  not  expire  till  the  taper  of  life  had 
long  blinked  in  the  socket,  his  reason  and  the  ruling  spring 
of  all  his  actions,  his  generosity  and  honesty,  strongly 
evinced  themselves  even  to  his  last  moments ;  and  I  fear 
his  dissolution,  though  inevitably  at  hand,  was  somewhat 
hastened  by  an  honest  warfare  in  the  cause  of  justice.  Mr. 
Fawcett,  who  performed  with  us  a  week  at  Ponteftact, 
previously  to  his  coming  hither,  had  stipulated  by  leiter, 
that  if  the  receipts  at  Pontefract  should  reach  a  certain 
sum,  he  should  receive  a  compensation,  but  if  not,  he 
begged  his  services  might  be  accepted  for  that  week.  The 
receipts  were  but  poor,  and  of  course  nothing  was  offered 
Mr.  Fawcett  by  our  acting  manager.  On  Wednesday 
night,  Tate  sent  for  Mr.  Fawcett,  and  inquired  of  him 
if  they  had  paid  him  for  Pontefract.  The  reply  was  'Lord 
bless  you,  as  it  was  bad,  I  told  you  I  should  not  take  any- 
thing.' The  old  man,  however,  fell  into  a  bitter  passion, 
exclaiming,  'Not  pay  you!  oh,  if  they  don't  pay  you, 
they'll  be  robbers,  cheats,  plunderers;  why  should  you 
not  be  paid?'  Mrs.  Wilkinson  and  John  were  accordingly 
summoned  into  his  presence,  and  violently  attacked.  His 
passion  was  so  extreme,  that  Fawcett  left  him  in  the  midst 
of  it :  it  continued,  however,  all  night,  and  the  next  morn- 
ing, Swalwell  called  Mr.  Fawcett  in,  and  insisted  on  his 
taking  257.  This,  by-the-by,  was  the  second  agitation  he 
underwent  that  night. 

"The  farce  on  Wednesday  was  'The  Wags  of  Windsor.' 
Tate  made  many  anxious  inquiries  how  Mr.  Fawcett  was 
received,  as  he  said  he  had  his  doubts  of  the  farce  doing 
well,  on  account  of  the  great  popularity  you  had  gained  in 
it.  He  was  of  course  pleased  to  hear  it  went  off  well.  At 
the  conclusion,  Kir.  William  Wilkinson  went  in  to  him.  An 
inquiry  was  made  how  he  liked  Mr.  Fawcett.  The  answer 
K  19 


218  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

was  evasive  :  '  Oh,  I  don't  know,  sir.'  '  Don't  know,  sir  ! 
and  why  don't  you  know?  how  did  you  like  Mr.  Fawcett 
in  the  part?'  'Oh,  sir,  he  was  very  well.1  'Why,  what 
the  devil  do  you  mean  by  very  well  ?  Why  don't  you  give 
me  your  opinion  why  he  was  only  very  well  ?'  '  Why,  sir, 
I  hope  I  may  be  allowed  to  give  my  opinion  ;  I  have  seen 
Mr.  Mathews  in  the  part,  and  I  give  the  preference  to 
him.'  '  Ugh  !  here's  a  man  !  everybody  tells  me  the  farce 
has  gone  off  with  unbounded  applause,  and  my  son  comes 
and  says  Mr.  Fawcett  was  only  very  well.'  This  was  the 
first  violent  fit  he  underwent  that  night. 

"As  the  event  of  his  death  was  made  public  directly, 
everybody  heard  it  as  they  came  from  the  race-ground. 
The  poor  old  soul  had  some  persuasion  of  his  departure, 
and  desired  that  the  theatre  might  not  be  shut  up  that 
night,  if  he  should  die.  We  accordingly  played  to  up- 
wards of  a  hundred  pounds,  though  a  general  gloom  over- 
spread us  all.  Yesterday's  bills  were  prefaced  as  follows. 
'York,  26th  August,  1803.  In  consequence  of  (a  ridi- 
culous expression,  by-the-by)  '  the  death  of  Mr.  Wilkinson, 
the  trustees  under  his  will  most  respectfully  inform  the 
public  that  they  feel  it  to  be  their  duty  to  continue  the 
theatre  open  this  evening,  Saturday  and  Monday,  when  it 
will  finally  close  until  the  winter  season.' 

"  Of  the  purport  of  his  will,  I  cas  only  give  you  con- 
jecture and  report.  They  say  that  he  has  enjoined  that 
none  of  the  performers  shall  be  discharged  without  a  suffi- 
cient reason  being  apparent.  But  all  this  is  only  vague  as 
to  its  authority.  The  old  man  is  to  be  buried  to-morrow 
morning  at  seven  o'clock  at  the  Pavement  church.  Mr. 
Swalwell  asked  Mr.  John  whether  it  was  wished  that  the 
gentlemen  of  the  theatre  should  attend.  A  negative  was 
given,  and  an  intimation  that  there  would  be  only  two 
coaches,  one  for  the  four  trustees,  and  the  other  for  the 


GREAT  DEBUTS.  219 

three  sons  and  Mr.  Cummins.  A  general  determination, 
however,  prevails  amongst  us  to  see  the  last  of  our  worthy 
old  manager,  every  one  being  well  convinced  that  'we 
shall  not  look  upon  his  like  again.'  "* 

Such  was  the  close  of  the  long  and  chequered  life  of 
this  excellent  old  player.  His  managerial  career  ended  as 
honorably  as  it  had  been  begun  and  supported,  and  there 
is  a  touch  of  pathos  in  his  loyal  consideration  for  his 
actors — his  last  wishes  having  a  jealous  regard  to  their 
interests.  It  is  a  pleasure  to  call  attention  to  the  merit  of 
this  obscure  though  worthy  follower  of  the  profession. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

GREAT    DEBUTS.      GARRICK — SIDDOXS — KEAN. 

THERE  is,  perhaps,  no  situation  in  life  so  entrancing  as 
one  of  those  rare  first  nights,  when  some  genius  has  ap- 
peared and  carried  away  the  audience  in  a  whirl  of  success. 
For  the  time,  it  seems  almost  a  glimpse  of  the  supernatural, 
and  the  fortunate  few  who  have  enjoyed  this  feeling  may 
fairly  look  back  to  that  night  as  one  of  delicious  enchant- 
ment. 

Associated  with  the  London  stage  there  would  appear  to 
be  hardly  more  than  three  of  these  grand  solemnities — of 
which  one  only  was  the  triumph  of  an  untried  debutant. 
Garrick  may  be  said  to  stand  alone,  as  offering  the  single 
instance  of  immediate  success.  He  had  indeed  made  an 
experiment  at  Ipswich,  but  had  appeared  only  a  few  times. 

*  The  above  extracts  are  taken  from  Mrs.  Matbews*  memoirs  of  her 


220  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

It  was  at  a  sort  of  unlicensed  theatre,  whose  rank  was  little 
above  that  of  a  music-hall  of  our  day,  that  a  young  man, 
of  short  stature,  whose  name  was  suppressed,  was  an- 
nounced as  about  to  make  his  "first  appearance  on  any 
stage."  The  night  was  that  of  the  ipth  October,  1741. 
The  audience  was  gathered  from  the  purlieus  of  the  East 
End,  with  a  sprinkling  of  private  friends.  The  play  was 
"Richard  the  Third." 

"  On  that  Monday  night  the  performance  began  at  six 
o'clock,  with  a  few  pieces  of  music.  Then  the  curtain 
rose  on  'The  Life  and  Death  of  King  Richard  the  Third,' 
and  after  the  first  scene,  at  that  nervous  moment,  the  new 
actor  came  from  the  wing.  Macklin  always  talked  fondly 
of  this  glorious  night — the  delight  he  felt,  the  amazing 
surprise  and  wonder  at  the  daring  novelty  of  the  whole, 
and  yet,  at  the  same  time,  the  universal  conviction  of  the 
audience  that  it  was  right.  It  was  recollected,  however, 
that  when  the  new  player  came  upon  the  scene  and  saw 
the  crowded  house,  he  was  disconcerted,  and  remained  a 
few  seconds  without  being  able  to  go  on.  But  he  recov- 
ered himself.  No  wonder  it  surprised  that  audience — it 
was  so  new,  and  was  all  new.  The  surprising  novelty  was 
remarked,  '  that  he  seemed  to  identify  himself  with  the 
part.'  They  were  amazed  at  his  wonderful  power  of 
feature.  The  stupendous  passions  01  ^Richard  were  seen  in 
his  face  before  he  spoke,  and  outstripped  his  words.  There 
was  a  perpetual  change  and  vivacity.  One  effect  at  last 
overbore  all  hesitation,  and  the  delighted  audience  found 
relief  for  their  emotions  in  rapturous  shouts  of  applause. 
It  was  when  he  flung  away  the  Prayer-book,  after  dismiss- 
ing the  deputation — a  simple  and  most  natural  action, 
yet  marked  with  originality — and  then  the  audience  first 
seemed  to  discover  this  was  true  genius  that  was  before 
them.  When  he  came  to  the  later  defiant  and  martial 


GREAT  DEBUTS.  221 

phase  of  the  character,  he  took  the  audience  with  him  in 
a  tempest  of  enthusiasm.  'What  do  they  in  the  North?' 
was  given  with  such  electric  enthusiasm  and  savageness  as 
to  cause  a  thrill  to  flatter  round  the  hearers:  and  when  be 
came  to  the  effective  clap-trap,  '  Off  with  his  head «'  his 
visible  enjoyment  of  the  incident  was  so  marked  that  the 
audience  burst  into  loud  shouts  of  delight  and  approbation. 
What  a  night  of  delight  to  look  back  to !" 

On  the  following  morning  he  awoke  and  found  himself 
famous.  His  reception,  said  the  newspapers,  "was  one  of 
the  most  extraordinary  and  great  that  ever  was  seen  on 
such  an  occasion."  An  old  gentleman  of  Lichfield — Mr. 
Swynfen — wrote  down  to  Lichfield,  to  break  the  news  to 
the  family,  in  a  characteristic  letter.  "  I  was  there"  he 
says,  "  and  was  witness  to  a  most  general  applause  he  gained 
in  the  character ;  for  I  believe  there  was  not  one  in  the 
house  who  was  not  in  raptures,  and  I  heard  several  men  of 
judgment  declare  it  their  opinion  that  nobody  ever  excelled 
him  in  that  part."  Mr.  Pope — certainly  a  man  of  judg- 
ment— came  to  see  him,  and  declared  that  nobody  had  ever 
equaled  him,  or  would  equal  him.  And  for  weeks  after- 
wards the  narrow  streets  of  the  obscure  quarter  were 
blocked  up  with  the  carriages  of  the  nobility  crowding  to 
see  him,  and  a  dozen  dukes  were  seen  in  the  boxes  of  a 
night. 

More  interesting,  however,  is  the  story  of  that  true  hero- 
ine, Mrs.  Siddons,  who,  passing  the  ordeal  of  a  stroller's 
life,  was  admitted  to  the  country  theatres,  and  engaged 
by  Mr.  Garrick  on  the  report  of  Parson  Bate,  specially 
sent  down.  The  story  of  her  failure  at  Drury  Lane  is 
well  known;  for  which  the  jealousy  of  the  established 
actresses,  her  own  timidity  and  youth,  with  an  injudi- 
cious selection  of  characters,  were  accountable.  Discred- 
ited, and  refused  a  re-engagement,  as  one  not  likely  to 
19* 


222  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

add  to  the  credit  of  the  house,  she  had  to  return  to  the 
country.  "It  was  a  stunning  and  cruel  blow,"  she  says, 
"overwhelming  all  my  ambitions,  and  involving  peril  even 
to  the  subsistence  of  my  helpless  babes.  //  was  very  near 
destroying  me.  My  blighted  prospects,  indeed,  induced  a 
state  of  mind  that  preyed  upon  my  health,  and  for  a  year 
and  a  half  I  was  supposed  to  be  hastening  to  a  decline. 
For  the  sake  of  my  poor  children,  however,  I  roused  my- 
self to  shake  off  this  despondency."  In  short,  she  recom- 
menced her  country  drudgery,  and  for  several  years  labored 
hard,  winning  professional  admiration  and  the  esteem  of 
friends. 

At  last,  in  1782,  came  the  longed-for  opportunity,  and 
she  was  engaged  at  Drury  Lane.  It  was  a  terrible  experi- 
ment, she  felt,  for  a  second  failure  could  not  be  redeemed. 

During  the  whole  fortnight  that  she  was  in  town  prepar- 
ing for  the  night  she  was  almost  in  a  nervous  fever.  "  No 
wonder,"  she  says,  "  for  my  own  fate  and  that  of  my  little 
family  hung  upon  it.  I  had  quitted  Bath  where  all  my 
efforts  had  been  successful,  and  I  feared  lest  a  second  fail- 
ure in  London  might  influence  the  public  mind  greatly  to 
my  prejudice,  in  the  event  of  my  return  from  Drury  Lane, 
disgraced  as  I  had  formerly  been."  Presently  the  rehear- 
sals commenced.  She  herself  gives  a  graphic  picture  of 
the  days  that  intervened.  "  Who  can -imagine  my  terror  ?" 
she  writes ;  "I  feared  to  utter  a  sound  above  an  audible 
whisper,  but  by  degrees  enthusiasm  cheered  me  into  a  joy- 
fulness  of  my  fears,  and  I  unconsciously  threw  out  my  voice, 
which  failed  not  to  be  heard  in  the  remotest  part  of  the 
house,  by  a  friend  who  kindly  undertook  to  ascertain  the 
happy  circumstance.  The  countenances,  no  less  than  tears 
and  flattering  encouragements  of  my  companions,  embold- 
ened me  more  and  more,  and  the  second  rehearsal  was  even 
more  affecting  than  the  first.  Mr.  King,  who  was  then 


GREAT  DEBUTS. 


223 


manager,  was  loud  in  his  applause.  This  second  rehearsal 
took  place  on  the  8th  of  October,  1 782,  and  on  the  evening 
of  that  day  I  was  seized  with  a  nervous  hoarseness,  which 
made  me  extremely  wretched,  for  I  dreaded  being  obliged 
to  defer  my  appearance  on  the  loth,  longing,  as  I  most 
earnestly  did,  at  least  to  know  the  worst.  I  went  to  bed 
therefore  in  a  state  of  dreadful  suspense.  Awaking  the 
next  morning  however,  though  out  of  restless,  unrefreshing 
sleep,  I  found  upon  speaking  to  my  husband  that  my  voice 
was  very  much  clearer.  This  of  course  was  a  great  comfort 
to  me,  and  moreover  the  sun,  which  had  been  completely 
obscured  for  many  days,  shone  brightly  through  my  cur- 
tains. I  hailed  it,  though  tearfully  yet  thankfully,  as  a 
happy  omen,  and  even  now  I  am  not  ashamed  of  this  (as 
it  may  perhaps  be  called)  childish"  superstition.  On  the 
morning  of  the  loth  my  voice  was  most  happily  perfectly 
restored,  and  again  the  bltssedsun  shone  brightly  on  me.  On 
this  eventful  day  my  father  arrived  to  comfort  me,  and  be 
a  witness  of  my  trial;  He  accompanied  me  to  my  dressing- 
room  at  the  theatre.  There  he  left  me,  and  I,  in  one  of 
what  I  call  my  desperate  tranquillities  which  usually  impress 
me  under  terrific  circumstances,  there  completed  my  dress 
to  the  astonishment  of  my  attendants  without  uttering  one 
word,  though  often  sighing  most  profoundly."  The  night 
arrived.  Everything  was  favorable.  There  was  a  vast 
house,  crammed  to  the  roof,  an  extraordinary  excitement 
and  curiosity.  The  best  actors  remaining  of  the  best  school 
were  to  play  with  her — Smith,  Palmer,  Farren,  and  others. 
She  had  even  the  consoling  support  of  old  Roger  Kemble, 
the  old  manager  of  strollers,  who  was  utterly  unnerved  by 
the  trial  that  was  before  his  daughter.  Her  husband  had 
not  courage  to  be  present,  but  wandered  about  the  streets 
round  the  play-house.  As  she  found  herself  on  the  stage 
she  felt,  she  said,  "  the  awful  consciousness  that  one  is  the 


224  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

sole  object  of  attention  to  that  immense  space,  lined  as  it 
were  with  human  intellect  from  top  to  bottom  and  all 
around,  it  may  be  imagined  but  can  never  be  described, 
and  by  me  can  never  be  forgotten  !"  She  had  no  need  to 
be  apprehensive.  It  was  one  continued  triumph.  As  the 
pathetic  piece  moved  on  there  was  that  one  centre  figure 
taking  enthralling  possession  of  the  audience.  The  tender- 
ness and  exquisite  sweetness  of  her  tones  went  to  every 
heart,  the  agony  of  grief  and  suffering  thrilled  all  present. 
At  times  she  had  all  men's  eyes  suffused  with  tears,  and 
many  women  in  actual  hysterics.  Towards  the  last  act 
there  was  scarcely  a  speech  of  hers  but  what  was  interrupted 
by  tumultuous  and  passionate  bursts  of  applause,  until  the 
whole  house  seemed  swept  away  in  transport.  From  that 
moment  her  success  was  assured  in  the  most  triumphant 
way.  "  I  reached  my  own  quiet  fireside  on  retiring  from 
the  scene  of  reiterated  shouts  and  plaudits.  I  was  half 
dead,  and  my  joy  and  thankfulness  were  of  too  solemn  and 
overpowering  a  nature  to  admit  of  words  or  even  tears. 
My  father,  my  husband,  and  myself  sat  down  to  a  frugal 
meat  supper  in  a  silence,  uninterrupted  except  by  exclama- 
tions of  gladness  from  Mr.  Siddons.  My  father  enjoyed 
his  refreshments,  but  occasionally  stopped  short,  and  laying 
down  his  knife  and  fork,  lifting  up  his  venerable  face,  and 
throwing  back  his  silver  hair,  gave  way  to  tears  of  happi- 
ness. We  soon  parted  for  the  night,  and  I,  worn  out  with 
continually  broken  rest  and  laborious  exertion,  after  an 
hour's  retrospection  (who  can  conceive  the  intenseness  of 
that  reverie  ?),  fell  into  a  sweet  and  profound  sleep,  which 
lasted  to  the  middle  of  the  next  day.  I  arose  alert  in  mind 
and  body." 

Her  calm,  steady  constancy  may  be  contrasted  with  the 
desperate  straits  and  tempestuous  victory  of  Edmund  Kean. 
The  history  of  his  miserable  struggle — his  privations,  and 


GREAT  DEBUTS.  225 

gallant  confidence  in  himself  all  through — is  familiar. 
One  November  night  in  the  year  1814,  he  was  playing  at 
Dorchester.  "When  the  curtain  drew  up,"  he  says — and 
the  reader  will  again  note  in  how  natural  and  effective  a 
style  most  players  relate  their  experiences — "  I  saw  a 
wretched  house :  a  few  people  in  the  pit  and  gallery,  and 
three  persons  in  the  boxes,  showed  the  quality  of  attraction 
we  possessed.  In  the  stage-box,  however,  there  was  a  gen- 
tleman who  appeared  to  understand  acting — he  was  very 
attentive  to  the  performance.  Seeing  this,  I  was  deter- 
mined to  play  my  best.  The  strange  man  did  not  applaud, 
but  his  looks  told  me  that  he  was  pleased.  After  the  play 
I  went  to  my  dressing-room  under  the  stage,  to  change  my 
dress  for  the  savage" — Kankon,  a  character  in  a  panto- 
mime— "so  that  I  could  hear  every  word  that  was  said 
overhead.  I  heard  the  gentleman  of  the  stage-box  ask 
Lee,  who  was  the  manager,  the  name  of  the  performer  who 
played  Octavian.  '  Oh,'  answered  Lee,  '  his  name  is  Kean 
— a  wonderful  clever  fellow.'  '  Indeed  !'  said  the  gentle- 
man. '  He  is  certainly  very  clever,  but  he  is  very  small.' 
'  His  mind  is  large ;  no  matter  for  his  height,'  said  Lee. 
By  this  time  I  was  dressed  for  the  savage,  and  I  therefore 
mounted  the  stage.  The  gentleman  bowed  to  me,  and 
complimented  me  slightly  upon  my  playing.  '  Well,'  said 
the  gentleman,  '  will  you  breakfast  with  me  to-morrow  ?  I 
shall  be  glad  to  have  some  conversation  with  you.  My 
name  is  Arnold ;  I  am  the  manager  of  Drury  Lane  Thea- 
tre.' I  staggered  as  if  I  had  been  shot.  My  acting  the 
savage  was  done  for.  I,  however,  stumbled  through  the 
part."  On  catching  sight  of  his  eldest  child,  who  was 
suffering  from  water  on  the  brain,  he  checked  his  delight ; 
and  he  closes  his  narrative  with  the  touching  comment, 
"If  Howard  gets  well,  we  shall  all  be  happy  yet." 

Within  a  week  the  child  died,  and  though  the  grand 

K* 


226  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

dream  of  his  life  was  about  to  be  accomplished,  this  loss 
seemed  to  make  him  indifferent.  "The  joy  I  felt,"  he 
wrote  to  Drury  Lane,  "  three  days  since  at  the  flattering 
prospects  of  future  prosperity  is  now  obliterated  by  the  un- 
expected loss  of  my  child.  Howard,  sir,  died  on  Monday 
morning  last.  .  .  .  This  heart-rending  event  must  delay 
me  longer  in  Dorchester  than  I  intended.  Immediately 
I  reach  London  I  will  again,  I  hope  with  more  fortitude, 
address  you." 

When  he  reached  town  his  appearance,  and  some  other 
reasons,  discouraged  the  manager.  He  was  treated  coldly 
by  actors  at  the  single  rehearsal  which  was  hurried  through 
on  the  morning  of  his  performance.  The  stage-manager 
listened  contemptuously  to  the  new  actor,  and  declared 
that  "it  wouldn't  do."  At  the  close  all  shrugged  their 
shoulders,  and  announced  that  failure  was  certain. 

"The  rehearsal  concluded,"  says  Mr.  Hawkins,  his 
biographer,  "  Kean  returned  home  to  enjoy  with  his  wife 
the  unusual  luxury  of  a  dinner.  He  remained  at  home 
until  six  o'clock,  when  the  striking  of  the  church  clocks 
warned  him  that  it  was  time  to  depart.  Snatching  up  a 
small  bundle  containing  the  few  necessaries  with  which  he 
was  bound  to  provide  himself,  he  kissed  his  wife  and  infant 
son,  and  hurriedly  left  the  house.  'I  wish,'  he  muttered, 
'that  I  was  going  to  be  shot.'  With,  his  well-worn  boots 
soaked  with  the  thickly  encumbered  slush,  he  slunk  in  at 
the  stage  door  as  if  desirous  of  escaping  observation." 

Everything  was  against  him.  The  night,  as  the  whole 
day  had  been,  was  wet  and  miserable.  He  paddled  through 
the  mud  and  slush,  and  arrived,  wet  through,  at  the  thea- 
tre, where  he  silently  crept  to  a  dressing-room,  of  which 
he  was  allowed  only  a  share ;  dressed  himself,  to  the  amuse- 
ment and  even  contempt  of  his  fellows,  who  noticed  that 
he  was  putting  on  a  black,  instead  of  the  traditional  red 


GREAT  DEBUTS. 


227 


wig  of  Shylock.     The  stage-manager  did  not  remonstrate 
— giving  him  up  as  hopeless.     He  hardly  spoke  to  him. 

Two  good-natured  actors — Oxberry  and  Bannister — 
alone  gave  him  some  encouragement ;  the  former  offered  a 
glass  of  brandy  and  water.  When  dressed,  he  went  to  the 
wing,  and  saw  an  empty,  cheerless  house — in  the  pit,  about 
fifty  persons.  Then  the  curtain  rose.  Soon  the  audience 
began  to  waken  to  enthusiasm,  and  by  the  end  of  the  first 
act,  there  was  an  instinct  behind  the  scenes  that  genius  was 
present,  and  that  a  success  was  at  hand.  The  players  began 
to  gather  about  him  and  congratulate,  but  he  shrank  from 
them  with  a  look,  and  withdrew  into  concealment.  From 
that  moment  the  enthusiasm  rose,  the  theatre  began  to 
echo  with  prolonged  shouts.  "What  now,"  says  Dr.  Doran, 
in  a  spirited  passage,  "was  the  cry  in  the  green-room?" 
The  answer  was  that  the  presence  and  power  of  the  genius 
were  acknowledged  with  an  enthusiasm  that  shook  the  very 
roof.  "  How  the  devil  so  few  of  them  kicked  up  such  a 
row,"  said  Oxberry,  "was  something  marvelous."  As 
before,  Kean  remained  reserved  and  solitary,  but  he  was 
now  sought  after.  Raymond,  the  acting  manager,  who  had 
haughtily  told  him  that  his  innovations  would  not  do,  came 
to  offer  him  oranges.  Arnold,  the  stage-manager,  who  had 
'young  man'd'  him,  came  to  present  him — 'Sir' — with 
some  negus.  Kean  cared  for  nothing  more  now  than  his 
fourth  act,  and  in  that  his  triumph  culminated.  As  he 
passed  to  the  sorry  and  almost  roofless  dressing-room,  Ray- 
mond saluted  him  with  the  confession  that  he  had  made  a 
hit ;  Pope,  more  generous,  avowed  that  he  had  saved  the 
house  from  ruin." 

"The  pit  rose  at  me!"  was  his  own  description.  Trem- 
bling with  agitation  and  excitement,  he  took  off  the  Jew's 
dress  and  resumed  his  old,  old  threadbare  suit,  turned  dis- 
dainfully from  the  genuine  applause  of  his  fellow-actors, 


228  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

and  left  the  house.  Through  the  wet  and  slush  he  rushed 
home,  flew  upstairs,  and  clasped  his  wife  in  his  arms.  He 
poured  out  the  story  of  his  triumph.  "Mary,"  he  cried, 
"  you  shall  ride  in  your  carriage  !  And  Charley,  my  boy," 
— and  he  turned  to  his  infant — ''you  shall  go  to  Eton  !" 
Here  his  voice  faltered,  and  he  murmured  the  name  of  the 
child  he  had  so  recently  lost. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  whole  round  of  the  plays  so 
dramatic  or  so  thrilling  as  this. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

"  THE    ILL-FATED    MOSSOP."* 

AMONG  the  actors  with  which  the  stage  is  crowded,  a 
most  interesting  figure  is  that  of  Mossop,  of  whom  perhaps 
little  more  is  known,  by  the  average  light  reader,  than  his 
name  and  rivalry  with  Garrick.  His  unfamiliar  story  must 
attract  sympathy — such  sympathy  as  is  extended  to  the 
proud,  rude  nature  that  resents  neglect,  but  disdains  to 
complain.  It  is  one  of  the  most  painful  histories  con- 
nected with  the  stage. 

The  success  of  Garrick,  an  officer's  son,  and  the  vast 
interest  excited  in  the  legitimate  drama,  seemed  to  draw  a 
number  of  clever  young  men,  of  good  birth  and  con- 
nections, to  the  stage.  A  long  list  in  particular  could  be 
made  out  of  the  graduates  and  students  of  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Dublin,  who  adopted  the  profession.  Distinguished 
among  these  was  Henry  Mossop,  the  son  of  a  clergyman, 
himself  intended  for  the  church,  but  who  could  not  resist 

Bonn  1729,  died  1773. 


"THE  ILL-FATED  MOSSOPr 


229 


the  attraction  of  the  "headlights,"  the  now  familiar  foot- 
lights then  not  existing.  He  made  his  appearance  in 
1749,  as  Zanga,  a  "tearing"  part  full  of  rage  and  even 
ferocity,  and  became  popular.  In  a  short  time  later  his 
reputation  had  got  to  London,  and  be  was  engaged  at 
Drury  Lane  by  Garrick,  who  cheerfully  offered  his  stage 
even  to  such  brethren  as  were  likely  to  shine  in  his  own 
line  of  character. 

Here  his  powers  excited  admiration  and  ridicule.  He 
was  certainly  what  is  called  "  a  fine  actor,"  conscientious, 
well  studied,  full  of  the  character  and  profession,  with 
an  overweening  sense  of  his  own  dignity  and  abilities, 
which  yet  could  not  be  styled  vanity.  He  had  a  splendid 
eye  and  a  good  figure,  and  in  parts  where  fierce  rage 
and  blatant  power  were  required,  was  excellent.  But  the 
critics  soon  began  to  find  amusement  in  his  regulated  atti- 
tudes and  stage  "  drill,"  to  which  he  devoted  unwearied 
pains,  while  his  favorite  position,  known  as  the  "handle 
and  spout,"  one  arm  extended,  the  other  bent  and  resting 
on  his  hip,  was  unsparingly  ridiculed.  Churchill  gives 
this  admirable  picture  of  him : — 


plan. 


Stffl  kept  his  eye  fixed  on  his  right-hand  man. 

White  die  month  measures  words  with  cunning  skffl. 

The  right  hand  labors  and  the  left  lies  stflL 

Wim  sorted  impropriety  of  speech 

He  soars  beyond  the  hackneyed  critic's  reach, 

To  efiOuts  *U*b  emphatic  state. 

If  Tulst  prindfals.  migrated,  KJte  lackeys  aui'. 
fees  ran, 
CT,  ftigfatthesooL"* 

He  was  unsparing  of  his  labors,  and  one  of  his  charac- 
ters was  found  written  over  with  the  most  extraordinary 

*  This  admirable  sketch  appeals  to  the  ear  as  well  as  to  the  eye,  and  we 
can  almost  hear  die  stiff,  ragged  actor  dwelling  slowly  on  each  pronoun. 


230  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

elocutionary  directions,  such  as  "G  tone,  with  feeling,  but 
low;"  "  Vast  throbs  of  feeling;"  and  the  words  "  new  de- 
vice" are  to  be  illustrated  by  "  face  full  to  audience.  Side 
look.  Cunning,  fretful,  and  musing.  Smiling  inward." 

Enemies  of  Garrick,  however,  suggested  to  him  that  he 
was  put  in  the  background,  that  the  manager  was  jealous 
of  his  talents,  and  purposely  kept  him  out  of  the  "  lover" 
characters.  His  haughty,  sensitive  soul  instantly  saw  a 
design,  complete  and  insidious.  Wretched  scribes  in  the 
Press  inflamed  him  by  urging  the  same  accusation.  All 
the  time  he  was  figuring  in  Richards,  Zangas,  and  other 
important  parts.  But  he  pressed  for  the  lovers  ;  the  mana- 
ger good-humoredly  allowed  him  to  make  the  experiment, 
which,  as  may  be  conceived,  was  a  ludicrous  failure,  and 
which  was  naturally  set  down  by  the  injured  player  to  any 
cause  but  his  own  deficiencies. 

"Mr.  Mossop's  departure,"  says  his  champion,  Wil- 
liams, "  was  partly  occasioned  by  an  affront  he  took  from 
Mr.  Garrick's  appointing  Mr.  Mossop  to  act  Richard,  as 
we  will  suppose  this  night — and  his  first  and  best  char- 
acter, which  stood  well  against  Mr.  Garrick's,  though  not 
so  artfully  and  finely  discriminated — and  at  the  same  time 
the  manager  secured  a  command  from  the  Prince  of  Wales 
for  the  night  following ;  so  that  when  Mr.  Mossop  had 
finished  Richard  with  remarkable  credit  in  February,  1759, 
to  his  astonishment,  the  Mr.  Palmer  of  that  a"ge  stepped 
forward  and  said,  '  To-morrow  night,  by  command  of  his 
Royal  Highness  the  Prince  of  Wales  (his  present  Majesty), 
King  Richard  III. — King  Richard  by  Mr.  Garrick.'  It 
gave  a  great  damp  to  what  Mr.  Mossop  had  just  finished ; 
it  certainly  was  galling,  and  proved  duplicity  and  ill-nature, 
as  well  as  envy." 

In  disgust  he  quitted  the  theatre,  and  in  1761  went  to 
Dublin,  where  he  determined  to  have  a  theatre  of  his  own, 


"THE  ILL-FATED  MOSSOP: 


231 


where   he   could  play  lovers  and   such  characters  as   he 
pleased. 

This  opens  a  chapter  in  Irish  stage  history — the  struggle 
of  Barry  and  Woodward  against  Mossop  at  Smock  Alley 
Theatre,  a  battle  that  divided  the  city  into  parties,  and 
was  fought  out  to  the  ruin  of  all  the  combatants.  Two 
prodigal  managers — Barry  and  Woodward — were  reigning 
in  partnership  at  Dublin,  and  fancied  that  the  whole  field 
was  secure  for  themselves.  "The  consternation,"  writes 
Tate  Wilkinson,  "at  the  news  was  extreme.  Mr.  Barry 
was  then  as  passionate  an  inamorata  as  ever  youthful  poet 
fancied  when  he  loved,  and  would  have  thrown  immediate 
bars  to  the  engagement  with  Mrs.  Abington,  had  not  a 
sudden  and  important  matter  of  astonishment  at  that  time 
started  up  to  the  amazement  of  every  faculty  of  eyes,  ears, 
&c. ;  for  Barry  and  Woodward,  lulled  in  their  long  wished- 
for  security,  became  the  dupes  of  their  own  arts,  and  made 
the  wandering  prodigal  (Woodward)  begin  seriously  to 
reflect,  and  severely  repent  his  foolish  conduct  in  leaving 
his  enviable  situation  in  London,  and  above  all  the  horror 
of  losing  what  he  had  saved  with  so  much  care.  This 
dreadful  alarm  was  no  less  than  the  certainty  of  a  report 
being  confirmed  as  real,  which  at  first  they  treated  as 
unlikely,  vague,  and  impossible;  but  it  proved  strictly 
true,  that  Mr.  Mossop,  from  the  encouragement  and  insti- 
gation of  all  his  friends,  and  patronized  by  the  Countess 
of  Brandon,  of  powerful  sway,  with  many  leaders  of 
fashion,  had  certainly  taken  Smock  Alley  Theatre  on  a 
long  lease,  purposing  many  expensive  and  gaudy  alter- 
ations, &c.,  to  oppose  Crow  Street,  in  the  month  of  Oc- 
tober the  ensuing  season.  Barry  and  Woodward  (to 
prevent,  if  possible,  this  dreadful  undertaking)  made  him 
liberal  offers;  nay,  even  humbled  themselves  before  him, 
to  entreat  Mossop  to  name  his  own  terms.  All  this  only 


232 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


increased  his  pride,  and  he  spurned  at  every  kindness  or 
emolument  submitted  to  his  acceptance  and  consideration. 
They  even  offered  him  one  thousand  pounds  in  English, 
and  two  benefits  whenever  he  chose  to  take  them ;  but 
all  would  not  do,  though  they  certainly  would  have  been 
losers  by  his  acceptance :  but  their  situation  was  desperate ; 
therefore  all  they  could  do  was  right,  if  by  any  means  they 
could  have  effectually  prevented  such  an  opposition.  Mos- 
sop's  pride  and  obstinacy  were,  however,  bent  on  mon- 
archy, and  so  he  was  the  cause  of  mutual  ruin  ;  but  he  at 
last  suffered  in  a  peculiar  degree  of  punishment. 

"  He  had  saved  a  decent  fortune,  and  .by  the  absence  of 
Barry,  could  have  commanded  a  first  station  in  London  at 
either  theatre,  whenever  he  pleased  or  wished  a  change  from 
Dublin  ;  but  his  pride  was  predominant  over  reason,  so  he 
prostrated  fame,  fortune,  health,  and  peace  of  mind  head- 
long at  the  shrine  of  vanity,  where  sycophants  hailed  him 
with  songs  of  triumph  in  full  chorus,  but  his  festal  days  were 
few  and  not  to  be  envied." 

A  history  of  the  Dublin  stage  would  be  a  piquant  con- 
tribution to  dramatic  annals.  Mossop  insolently  declared 
that  there  should  be  but  one  theatre  in  Ireland,  and  that 
he  should  be  the  sole  manager.  No  expense  was  spared. 
Each  side  had  their  patronesses,  Mossop' s  being  the  Coun- 
tess of  Brandon,  Miss  Caulfield,  sisterto  the  Earl  of  Charle- 
mont,  and  Lady  Rachael  Macdonald.  He  was  a  gentleman 
by  birth  and  had  aristocratic  sympathies;  but  he  was  above 
all  sense  of  pecuniary  difficulty,  being  absorbed  in  the  lofty 
sense  of  his  own  talent.  Now  he  could  appear  as  a  lover. 
The  pretty  English  opera  of  "The  Maid  of  the  Mill"  was 
put  in  rehearsal,  with  good  singers :  though  the  performers 
were  a  little  puzzled  as  to  who  was  to  play  the  tenor.  Near 
the  day  of  performance,  however,  it  was  announced  "the 
part  of  Lord  Aimwell  (without  the  songs  /)  by  Mr.  MOSSOP." 


"THE  ILL-FATED  MOSSOP." 


233 


Tate  Wilkinson  then  gives  this  lively  sketch  of  the  state  of 
things  which  presently  followed : — 

"  This  governor  of  restless  players  (Mossop)  was  not  by 
any  means  blessed  with  a  tithe  of  Mr.  Barry's  pleasing 
abilities  as  an  actor,  or  generous  qualities  as  a  man  or 
manager.  Mr.  Barry  had  certainly  a  most  enchanting  fas- 
cination beyond  the  general  lot  of  mankind :  as  a  proof, 
it  was  seldom  either  creditor  or  enemy  left  Barry  in  an  ill- 
humor,  however  in  other  respects  dissatisfied  or  disap- 
pointed. Mr.  Mossop  was  overloaded  with  a  quantity  of 
combustibles,  consisting  of  pride,  insolence,  arrogance,  and 
gall. 

"Early  in  March,  1762,  both  the  tragedy  candidates, 
Barry  and  Mossop,  had  fixed  on  performing  Othello  on  the 
same  Monday  for  their  benefit  play.  Mossop  relying  on 
his  novelty,  Barry  on  his  long-established  reputation,  the 
partisans  prepared  for  the  battle ;  bets  ran  high  and  furious, 
as  in  the  present  days  for  pugilism.  Mossop' s  holder  of 
the  stakes  was  the  Countess  of  Brandon,  heavy  in  demeanor, 
but  alert  in  apprehension.  Her  ladyship  solicited  his  Grace 
the  Duke  of  Northumberland  to  command  Mossop' s  night, 
to  which  he  generously  assented ;  but  wisely  contrived  to 
occasion  a  cessation  of  hostilities  between  the  two  com- 
batants, by  promising  to  Barry,  that,  provided  he  would 
postpone  his  night  to  the  Tuesday,  he  would  also  command 
that  evening's  entertainment,  by  which  means  the  town 
would  be  kept  in  good-humor,  the  particular  friends  of  each 
rest  satisfied,  and,  his  Grace  also  added,  he  should  (by  such 
attention  and  compliance  from  Mr.  Barry)  not  be  deprived 
of  the  pleasure  of  seeing  him  in  his  favorite  character  of 
Othello,  which  always  afforded  him  the  highest  satisfaction. 
Barry  of  course  complied,  and  was  not  inwardly  displeased 
that  the  critics  (without  a  division)  would  have  such  an 
immediate  opportunity  to  compare  notes  on  the  skill  and 

20* 


234  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

superiority  of  the  declared  opponents.  On  this  remarkable 
occasion  each  house  was  equally  thronged,  though  Barry's, 
on  the  Tuesday,  was  the  greatest  receipt,  as  Crow  Street 
was  capable  of  containing  more  than  Smock  Alley  ;  other- 
wise party  zeal,  added  to  curiosity,  raised  auditors  in  such 
superabundance  as  would  have  filled  Drury  Lane  and  Co- 
vent  Garden  Theatres.  As  to  victory,  Barry's  Othello  was 
so  meritorious  as  to  make  Mossop's  viewed  at  a  distance 
only;  he  was  as  much  superior  in  the  valiant  Moor  as 
Mossop  would  have  been  to  Barry  in  Richard  or  Zanga. 
I  sat,  the  evening  of  Mossop's  benefit,  in  an  upper  box, 
where  a  lady  who  sat  next  me  exclaimed  on  Mossop's  first 
appearance,  with  an  archness  and  humor  peculiar  to  that 
nation,  '  O  !  faith,  Mossop  has  got  two  eyes  in  his  chest !' 
This  shrewd  remark  was  occasioned  by  his  wearing  a  heavy 
embossed  shape  (fit  for  Brutus  or  Cato),  a  dragon's  face  on 
the  breast,  with  two  large  glaring  red  stones  for  the  eyes ; 
his  face  and  wig  being  black,  conveyed  exactly  what  the 
„  lady  had  so  ironically  expressed.  Mr.  Barry,  though  mas- 
terly that  night  of  controversy,  had  frequently  shown  him- 
self to  more  advantage,  merely  owing  to  his  then  taking 
too  great  pains  in  his  favorite  and  much  esteemed  part ; 
which  proves,  that  lucky  accidents  fortunately  combined 
with  nature  will  perchance  strike  out  more  beauties  for 
an  artist  than  all  the  most  determined  force  of  premedi- 
tation. 

"  Mr.  Mossop  that  year  had  an  Italian  opera  company, 
which  was  of  infinite  service  to  him,  but  astonishingly  hurt 
his  own  consequence :  for,  what  with  parties  and  other 
diversions  of  routs,  assemblies,  concerts,  &c.  with  which 
Dublin  in  the  winter  abounds,  and  opposed  by  the  forces 
of  Woodward  and  Barry  (for-  they  still  maintained  their 
fashion  and  good  report),  the  great  box  nights  were  chiefly 
confined  to  those  of  the  burlettas.  That  agreeable  singer 


"THE   ILL-FATED  MOSSOP: 


235 


and  actress  Signora  De  Amid  was  the  principal,  and  was 
almost  adored  ;  she  after  that  greatly  succeeded  at  the  opera 
house  in  London,  as  the  first  serious  woman  singer.  These 
Italian  comic  operas  were  all  the  rage,  and  were  supported 
at  the  following  prices : — boxes,  pit,  and  lettices,  5*.  $d.  ; 
middle  gallery,  zs.  zd. ;  upper  gallery,  \s.  \d.  Dublin 
was  then  torn  to  pieces  by  the  perpetual  application  for 
one  theatre  or  the  other ;  it  was  reduced  quite  to  a  party 
matter.  The  Countess  of  Brandon  would  not  be  seen  at 
Crow  Street  upon  any  account,  but  attended  constantly 
at  her  dear  Mossop's.  Barry,  I  believe,  had  at  least  con- 
verted the  ladies  two  to  one  in  his  favor.  Barry's  making 
love,  when  on  the  stage,  left  tender  impressions ;  but  yet 
this  play-begging  at  last  grew  troublesome,  and  ended  with 
fatal  circumstances,  of  which  an  exact  account  has  before 
been  given. 

"  Mossop,  when  he  had  a  good  house,  instead  of  endeav- 
oring to  extricate  himself  in  any  degree  from  his  multi- 
plicity of  difficulties,  grew  desperate,  and  instead  of  paying 
either  his  tradesman  or  performers,  flew  to  the  gay  circles, 
where  he  was  gladly  admitted  ;  and  in  order  to  mend  his 
broken  fortune  by  the  chance  of  a  die  or  the  turn  up  of 
a  card — of  which  I  believe  he  was  ignorant,  and  unac- 
quainted with  the  necessary  arts  to  succeed — he  has  often 
left  the  theatre  with  a  hundred  guineas  in  his  pocket,  and 
returned  home  with  an  aching  head  and  heart ;  but  his 
guineas,  with  debts  of  honor,  were  all  left  behind.  The 
Countess  of  Brandon  served  him  greatly,  it  is  true;  but 
often  the  money  she  occasioned  being  paid  at  the  theatre 
returned  to  her  own  coffers.  This  was  the  universal  opin- 
ion of  Dublin,  and  is  all  I  can  allege  in  that  case  as  to  its 
authenticity ;  and,  as  to  Mossop's  poverty,  there  needs  no 
evidence  for  that  unfortunate  reality.  This  conduct,  and 
a  train  of  evils  attendant  thereon,  soon  preyed  upon  his 


236  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

health,  involved  his  talents  with  himself,  and  gave  bitter 
sours  to  that  temper  which  was,  in  its  natural  source,  far 
from  being  one  of  the  best.  An  instance  of  the  poverty 
his  performers  were  reduced  to  in  1764  I  will,  with  per- 
mission, relate. 

"  The  '  Distressed  Mother'  was  to  be  acted — Orestes 
Mr.  Mossop ;  Andromache  by  Mrs.  Burden  (whom  I  have 
so  often  mentioned).  The  salaries  had  not  been  paid  for 
several  weeks,  and  she  was  in  true  character  as  the  dis- 
tressed woman.  With  infinite  difficulty  she  forced  access 
to  the  general — Mossop;  for  it  was  hard  to  accomplish 
admittance  on  account  of  many  inconvenient  reasons,  un- 
less on  a  Sunday,  and  on  that  grand  levee  day  perform- 
ers and  tradesmen  were  too  menial  to  be  admitted.  But 
with  the  force  of  a  heroine,  who  dauntless  surmounts  all 
barriers  and  tyrants  at  will,  so  Mrs.  Burden  burst  into  the 
'  inmost  recess  of  his  prison  house,'  and  when  arrived  at 
the  royal  hall,  she  was  as  determined  to  preserve  character ; 
for  at  the  awful  voice  of  Mossop  she,  Andromache-like, 
was  prostrate  at  the  feet  of  her  royal  master,  and  uttered 
forth  in  tragic  tones,  '  O  !  sir,  for  God's  sake  assist  me,  I 
have  not  bread  to  eat.  I  am  actually  starving,  and  shall 
be  turned  out  into  the  streets.' 

"  Mossop.  (In  state.')  Wo-man  ! — you  have  five  pounds 
per  week,  wo-man  ! 

" Mrs.  Burden.  True,  sir:  but  I  have  been  in  Dublin 
six  months,  and  in  all  that  time  have  only  received  six 
pounds.  I  call  every  Saturday  at  the  office  for  my  salary 
— but  no  money,  is  the  answer  :  besides,  sir,  your  credit 
and  your  honor  are  at  stake  ;  how  can  I  play  Andromache, 
the  Trojan  Queen,  without  black  satin  shoes? 

"  Mossop.  Woman,  begone!  I  insist  on  your  having 
black  satin  shoes  for  Androm-a-che.  And,  wo-man,  if  you 
dare  ask  me  for  money  again,  I  will  forfeit  you  ten  pounds, 


"THE  ILL-FATED  MOSSOP."  237 

wo-man. — So  ended  that  real  tragical  scene  of  penury  and 
pomposity." 

There  were  endless  stories  rife  in  the  city  of  his  straits 
and  difficulties,  the  most  ludicrous  of  which  was  that  of 
the  actor,  who,  supporting  him  in  his  (histrionic)  agonies, 
threatened  to  let  him  fall  unless  he  promised  that  his  salary 
should  be  paid.  As  Mossop  hesitated,  the  actor,  grown 
desperate,  was  about  carrying  out  his  purpose  when  the 
other  consented.  Difficulties  and  miseries  of  all  kinds  be- 
gan to  overwhelm  him,  but  there  can  be  no  doubt  but  that 
the  patronesses — "The  Right  Honorable  Rooks,"  as  one 
account  calls  them — helped  to  pillage  him.  He  plunged 
into  law  proceedings  with  his  rivals,  in  which  he  spent  some 
£  2000,  and  had  at  last  to  barricade  himself  in  his  house 
against  bailiffs.  All  this  time,  as  may  be  seen  from  a  letter 
in  the  Garrick  Correspondence,  he  was  indebted  to  his  old 
enemy  for  money  and  many  friendly  acts  of  assistance, 
which  he  acknowledges.  But  the  struggle  could  not  be 
sustained ;  the  town  at  last  grew  tired,  declaring  that  no 
one  cared  "a  toss  up,  whether  Mossop  kicked  Barry,  or 
Barry  kicked  Mossop,"  and  at  last,  bankrupt  in  fortune, 
and  to  some  extent  in  reputation,  he  fled  from  the  scene  of 
so  much  disaster. 

After  this  came  a  speedy  and  mysterious  descent.  He 
found  his  way  to  London,  where,  humiliated,  scornful, 
and  prouder  than  ever,  he  disdained  to  ask  an  engagement 
from  Garrick.  The  latter,  whose  theatre  was  well  pro- 
vided, was  perhaps  not  very  eager  to  secure  so  disagreeable 
and  difficult  an  auxiliary,  and  not  unnaturally,  and  in  the 
absence  of  a  formal  application,  affected  not  to  know  that 
Mr.  Mossop  desired  to  be  engaged.  Here  was  ground  for 
a  grievance,  and  though  sensible  friends  begged  of  him  to 
be  rational  and  submit,  he  discovered  that  this  was  the  old 
envy  revived,  and  that  Roscius  was  meanly  jealous  and 


238  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

afraid.  It  must  and  should  come  from  him.  Garrick  of 
course,  when  the  matter  was  made  a  point  of  submission 
on  his  side,  declined  to  move.  Some  low  parasites  that 
were  about  Mossop  inflamed  the  brooding  actor's  rage; 
and  one  more  clever  than  the  rest,  David  Williams,  pub- 
lished an  offensive  pamphlet  asking  "why  Mr.  Mossop 
was  not  engaged,"  and  "grossly  taunting  Garrick  with  his 
failing  powers,  the  feebleness  of  his  limbs,  and  his  lack- 
lustre eye. 

But  there  was  a  greater  change  noticed  in  his  haughty 
enemy.  He  was  seen  moping  in  lowly  places,  emaciated, 
shrunk  away  to  half  his  former  size — his  voice  grown  hoarse 
and  almost  inarticulate — and  half  starved.  It  was  known 
indeed  that  he  had  no  money  and  was  well-nigh  destitute. 
But  when  friendly  voices  asked  how  his  health  was,  the 
proud  tragedian  answered  "that  he  never  was  better:" 
and  when  friendly  hands  offered  relief,  he  replied  haughtily 
that  he  wanted  nothing. 

At  last,  in  the  year  1773,  the  following  letter  from  a 
clergyman  reached  Mr.  Garrick.  It  brought  news  of  the 
wretched  finale. 

"I  found  him,"  wrote  the  gentleman,  "preparing  for 
death  with  that  extraordinary  solemnity  which  accompanied 
all  his  important  actions.  He  had  gone  through  the  gen- 
eral forms  of  the  church  ;  but  I  believe  only  as  religious 
and  edifying  forms,  and  unattended  with  any  discourse  on 
the  state  of  his  mind.  His  conversations  with  me  were 
the  most  interesting  that  can  well  be  conceived,  and  from 
the  extreme  dejection  of  my  own  mind,  and  the  high  and 
tragical  tone  in  which  he  expressed  himself,  they  made  a 
dreadful  impression  on  me.  His  religion  was  tinctured  by 
the  characters  he  had  studied,  and  many  of  the  attributes 
of  God  were  the  qualities  of  a  Zanga  or  a  Bajazet.  Among 
other  things  which  gave  him  uneasiness,  and  made  him 


THE  ILL-FATED  MOSSOP? 


239 


greatly  apprehend  the  displeasure  of  that  God  before  whom 
he  was  going  to  appear,  his  behavior  to  you  was  not  the 
least  distressing.  He  accused  himself  severely  of  having 
attributed  motives  of  conduct  to  you  which  he  firmly  be- 
lieved you  to  be  incapable  of.  He  saw  that  he  had  been 
deceived  by  an  excessive  pride ;  and  lamented  the  injustice 
he  had  done  you  not  only  in  some  pecuniar}-  articles,  but 
in  giving  ill  impressions  of  your  character  to  his  acquaint- 
ance. The  very  night  in  which  he  died  he  renewed  this 
conversation.  He  often  cried  out,  *  O  my  dear  friend  ! 
how  mean  and  little  does  Mr.  Garrick's  present  behavior 
make  me  appear  in  your  eyes,  to  whom  I  have  given  so 
different  an  idea  of  him!  Great  God,  forgive  me  :  Wit- 
ness, my  dear  William,  that  I  die  not  only  in  charity  with 
him,  but  that  I  honor  him  as  a  great  and  virtuous  man. 
God  Almighty  bless  and  prosper  him  forever  '" 

Garrick  wrote  back :  — "  I  thank  you  for  your  most 
affecting  letter.  Your  account  of  poor  Mossop's  death 
distressed  me  greatly.  I  have  been  often  told  that  his 
friends  never  spoke  kindly  of  me,  and  I  am  now  at  a  loss 
what  behavior  of  mine,  from  the  first  moment  I  knew  him 
till  the  time  of  his  death,  could  have  given  him  that  unkind 
and,  I  hope,  unmerited  turn  of  mind  against  me.  Had  I 
known  his  distress,  I  should  most  certainly  have  relieved 
it,  he  was  too  great  a  credit  to  our  profession  not  to  have 
done  all  in  our  power  to  have  made  him  easy  if  not 
happy." 

This  was  the  end  of  the  ill-fated  player,  who  expired  in 
a  mean  lodging  at  Chelsea.  Fourpence  was  all  the  money 
found,  and  the  disgrace  of  a  funeral  at  the  expense  of  the 
parish  seemed  imminent.  Mr.  Garrick  wished  to  save  the 
remains  of  his  old  comrade  from  such  an  indignity ;  but  a 
man  of  fashion,  and  Bencher  of  one  of  the  Inns  of  Court, 
interposed.  This  gentleman,  who  had  taken  no  notice  of 


240  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

his  unhappy  nephew  in  his  misery,  now  felt  that  the  re- 
spectability of  the  family  was  in  question,  and  defrayed  the 
expenses  of  a  moderate  funeral. 

Such  is  the  story  of  the  unfortunate  tragedian — the  proud 
"high  breathing  Mr.  Mossop1'1 — as  Tate  Wilkinson  happily 
describes  him.  It  makes  what  is  perhaps  the  most  touching 
episode  in  the  annals  of  the  stage. 


CHAPTER    VIII. 

LOVE   AND-  DEATH   UPON   THE   STAGE. 

THE  instances  of  the  elevation  of  actresses  from  the  stage 
to  be  peeresses  and  ladies  of  title,  are  pretty  well  known, 
and  have  added  to  the  dignity  of  the  stage.  Beyond  the 
fact  of  the  marriages  themselves,  which  were  in  the  nature 
of  a  surprise,  there  was  not  much  romance  involved,  and 
indeed  some  of  these  episodes,  such  as  that  of  Miss  Farren, 
ended  in  prosy  fashion  by  separation  or  divorce.  The 
Duchesses  of  Bolton  and  St.  Albans,  the  Countesses  of 
Derby,  Essex,  Brunton,  Harrington*,  Lady  Becher,  make 
up  the  brilliant  histrionic  roll.  To  this  category,  too, 
belongs  the  well-known  story  of  O'Brien,  the  handsome 
actor,  with  Lord  Ilchester's  daughter,  Lady  Sara  Strang- 
ways,  which  has  been  told  and  retold.  For  the  present, 
therefore,  this  ground  need  not  be  gone  over  again. 

But  there  are  some  episodes  of  less  pretensions,  though 
of  more  exciting  character ;  stories  of  passionate  love  and 
death — more  bound  up  with  the  stage  and  more  fruitful  of 
interest. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH  UPON  THE  STAGE.        241 


THE   HANDSOME   CONWAY. 

In  the  year  1810  the  Dublin  stage  sustained  the  loss  of  a 
graceful  actor  named  Holman,  and  then  arrived,  to  supply 
his  place,  a  young  tragedian  named  William  Augustus  Con- 
way,  who  was  six  feet  two  inches  high,  and  reputed,  as  well 
he  might  be,  the  tallest  actor  on  the  stage.  It  was  a  phe- 
nomenon to  see  this  giant  play  Hamlet,  and  such  characters, 
but  he  gradually  made  his  way  and  became  exceedingly 
popular.  He  was  born  in  1789,  and  had  been  sent  out  to 
Barbadoes,  but  had  returned  when  eighteen  years  old,  and 
had  gone  on  the  stage.  For  some  years  he  held  this  high 
position  until  his  reputation  was  made,  and  he  attracted 
the  managers  of  Covent  XJarden.  He  was  engaged  there 
in  1813,  as  second  to  Kemble,  beside  whom  he  could  make 
little  imp'ression,  and  soon  sank  into  obscurity.  Presently 
came  Miss  O'Neill,  and  the  tall  tragedian  was  selected  as 
jeune  premier,  or  "lover,"  to  play  with  her  in  all  the 
pieces  with  which  she  was  captivating  the  town.  This 
contrast,  however,  did  not  add  to  his  reputation,  and  the 
critics  were  fond  of  discovering  deficiencies  in  the  ensemble, 
which  they  maintained  might  be  supplied  by  an  actor  more 
suited  to  her  talents  and  style  than  Mr.  Conway.  Even 
with  this  chance  offered,  which  would  have  inspired  an 
actor  of  less  capability  than  Mr.  Conway,  he  could  make 
no  advance.  The  reason  was  no  doubt  that  failing  which 
often  so  mysteriously  hinders  the  progress  of  an  otherwise 
good  actor  or  actress — an  inability  to  excite  the  sympathy 
of  the  audience,  whom  indeed  they  rouse  in  quite  an  op- 
posite direction.  At  this  moment  there  are  artists  on  the 
stage,  capable,  laborious,  cultivated,  who  with  every  exer- 
tion can  excite  only  what  Lamb  calls  "imperfect  sympathy," 


242  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

which  is  but  one  remove  from  antipathy.  A  player  infinitely 
their  inferior  utters  some  small  phrase  in  a  true  and  tender 
modulation,  and  the  whole  house  appreciates.  The  cause 
is  no  doubt  a  certain  over-consciousness  and  innate  affecta- 
tion, such  as  makes  bashful  people  hard  and  forward.  Mr. 
Conway  was  besides  a  good-looking  actor,  and  was  sup- 
posed to  be  followed  by  a  crowd  of  female  admirers.  This 
too  always  helps  to  raise  a  barrier  between  the  player  and 
his  audience:  the  former,  flattered  by  "the  trunkful  of 
letters"  which  the  handsome  actor  always  is  ready  to  boast 
of,  indemnifies  himself  by  this  feminine  admiration  for 
neglect  upon  the  stage.  The  next  step  is  to  disdain  the 
applause  which  he  cannot  procure,  and  a  certain  conceit 
and  affected  superiority. 

Some  feeling  of  this  sort  was  no  doubt  the  cause  of 
Mr.  Conway's  failure.  Off  the  stage,  he  received  homage 
enough  to  turn  his  head  :  while  the  ladies  at  least  admired 
him  in  gallant  parts,  such  as  Falconbridge  and  Romeo. 
Donaldson  the  actor,  however,  declares  that,  apart  from 
physical  attractions,  he  was  excellent  in  these  characters. 
The  story  went  that  "a  duke's  daughter"  had  nearly 
lost  her  wits  through  the  fascination  of  this  captivating 
player.* 

Miss  O'Neil,  however,  passed  away;  and  presently  came 
the  great  Kean,  and  the  handsome  William  Augustus  Con- 
way  was  quite  extinguished.  The  truth  was  he  was  stung 
by  the  perpetual  ridicule  and  banter  showered  on  him  by 
the  Press,  especially  by  the  personalities  of  "  The  Mirror," 
which  had  selected  him  and  Elliston  as  special  butts.  This 
journal,  which  was  directed  by  the  eccentric  Hill,  pro- 

*  This  is  recorded  in  a  characteristic  sentence  in  the  "  Recollections 
of  an  Actor"  (Walter  Donaldson).  "  His  power  over  the  female  heart 
is  well  known :  and  what  it  must  have  been  may  be  surmised  when  the 
daughter  of  a  duke  went  about  raving  mad  for  this  Apollo  of  an  actor." 


LOVE  AXD  DEATH  UPON  THE  STAGE.        243 

nounced  that  he  had  a  "  bad  voice,  which  was  elevated 
into  a  monotonous  roar,  and  descended  to  a  whisper;" 
that  his  countenance  during  the  whole  performance  offered 
one  unvaried  gloomy  frown,  that  recalled  "  Huntley"  in 
a  circus  melodrama.  These  criticisms  grew  more  and  more 
offensive.  "  Mr.  Con  way,"  it  was  stated,  "  must  always 
be  tracing  a  circle  with  one  leg  while  the  other  acts  the 
part  of  a  pivot:  when  he  stoops  to  lift  the  child,  he 
stretches  his  limbs  with  the  air  of  a  hisus  natures  engaged 
for  exhibition,  and  clasps  his  hands  to  the  measure  of  one — 
two — three,  and  a  hop."  This  style  of  criticism,  steadily 
pursued  through  a  course  of  years,  at  last  drove  him  from 
the  London  stage  to  the  provincial  theatres. 

Coming  to  Bath,  he  was  destined  to  find  himself  the 
hero  of  a  grotesque  adventure  which  offered  a  curious  con- 
trast to  his  previous  honnts  fortunes. 

There  a  supremely  foolish  old  lady — who  was  some  sev- 
enty-three years  old — fell  violently  in  love  with  him,  and 
at  the  close  of  her  days  capped  all  the  follies  of  her  life. 
This  was  the  famous  Mrs.  Piozzi,  nee  Salusbury,  late  widow 
of  Thrale,  and  still  later  the  infatuated  adorer  and  wife  of 
a  singer  and  singing  master.  Mr.  Havward,  in  his  enter- 
taining memoirs  of  this  lady,  has  seriously  attempted  to 
vindicate  her  character;  yet  the  fact  remains  that  during 
the  lifetime  of  her  first  husband,  she  was  a  light,  frivolous 
creature,  though  lively  enough:  that  she  broke  with  the 
truest  and  noblest  of  characters,  Johnson,  because  he  re- 
monstrated too  warmly  with  her,  for  what  seemed  to  him 
an  unbecoming  marriage;  and  that  she  vindicated  his 
opinion  of  her  judgment  and  conduct  by  offering  mar- 
riage, when  seventy-three  years  old,  to  an  actor  who  might 
have  been  her  grandson !  This  well-born  lady  of  old  an- 
cestry and  good  estate,  who  first  selected  a  brewer,  then  a 
singer,  and  finally  a  third-rate  actor — the  two  latter  for 


244 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


their  personal  charms — and  who,  at  the  same  time,  had  ex- 
periences of  the  best  society  in  London,  where  she  might 
have  found  the  superior  attractions  of  wit  and  refinement, 
must  have  had  singular  tastes.  The  tendency  of  the  mind 
that  is  cultivated  is  to  rise  and  not  to  sink. 

Infatuation  is  indeed  the  name  for  this  new  passion,  if 
we  may  judge  by  the  letters  of  one  whom  it  is  scarcely 
irreverence  to  call  a  very  silly  old  lady.  They  are  indeed 
a  testimony  to  the  sagacity  of  Samuel  Johnson,  now  long 
in  his  grave,  and  whose  unsparing  severity  on  the  eve  of 
her  second  marriage  they  more  than  justify.  She  was  not 
old  enough  to  have  this  set  to  the  account  of  age ;  for 
during  many  years  she  was  to  be  accounted  the  most  amaz- 
ingly intelligent  and  vivacious  old  lady  ever  known.  This 
pitiable  story  adds  yet  another  instance  of  that  compro- 
mising delusion,  to  which  the  most  eminent  seem  to  be  the 
victims.* 

In  the  month  of  September,  1819,  she  thus  commences 
her  amatory  strains  : — 

"  Three  Sundays  have  now  elapsed  since  James  brought 
me  dearest  Mr.  Conway's  promise  to  write  to  me  the  very 
next,  and  were  it  not  for  the  newspaper  which  came  on 
Tuesday  the  24th  August — sending  me  to  rest  comfortable, 
though  sick  enough,  and  under  the  influence  of  laudanum 
— I  should  relapse  into  my  former  state  of  agonizing  appre- 
hension on  your  account ;  but  that  little  darling  autograph 
round  the  paper  was  written  so  steady,  and  so  completely 
in  the  old  way,  whenever  I  look  at  it  my  spirits  revive,  and 
hope  (true  pulse  of  life)  ceases  to  intermit,  for  awhile  at 
least,  and  bids  me  be  assured  we  shall  soon  meet  again.  I 


*  Of  the  genuineness  of  the  following  extracts  there  can  be  no  question. 
Their  authenticity  is  proved  in  a  manner  quite  convincing ;  but  their  style 
is  even  a  better  proof.  The  letters  were  found  at  New  York. 


LOVE  AND  DEATH   UPON  THE   STAGE. 


245 


really  was  very  ill  three  or  four  days;  but  the  jury  of 
matrons  who  sat  on  my  complaint  acquitted  the  apricots 
which  I  accused,  and  said  they  (all  but  two)  proved  an 
alibi.  Some  of  the  servants,  who  were  ill  too,  found  out 
(that  we  had,  in  Bessy's  absence,  got  some  mildewed  tea 
jthat  lay  in  a  damp  closet  at  the  last  lodging.  We  are  now 
jremoved  to  a  palace,  a  Weston  palazzino,  where  we  propose 
receiving  Mr.  Conway." 

She  could  be  very  graphic  and  amusing,  this  old  lady ; 
and  one  of  the  most  curious  features  in  her  letters  is  a  sort 
of  badinage,  assumed  with  great  art,  when  she  found  her- 
self growing  too  ardent,  and  which  seemed  to  plead  deli- 
cately that  she  was  privileged,  and  only  half  in  earnest. 
That  stroke  of  the  "jury  of  matrons"  is  comic;  and  she 
rather  indiscreetly  alludes  to  "a  superannuated  beauty 
fifteen  or  twenty  years  younger  than  myself,  but  sick  and 
dropsical;  her  legs  hanging  over  her  shoes."  This,  too, 
is  artfully  put,  as  who  should  say,  "Good  care  and  pres- 
ervation do  not  depend  on  age ;  for  here  is  a  professed 
beauty  far  younger,  and  not  nearly  so  well  preserved." 

The  young  actor,  however,  flagged  occasionally  in  his 
devotion  ;  was  often  ill,  and  did  not  write;  and  she  would 
appeal  to  him  pathetically  : — 

"  I  feel  much  more  immediately  and  sincerely  interested 
in  our  own  meeting  after  such  cruel  illness  and  dangers, 
and  a  silence  that  has  shaken  my  courage  more  than  all  the 
savage  shoutings  of  this  new-fangled  reformation.  Good- 
night ;  and  God  bless  my  valued  friend,  for  whose  perfect 
recovery  and  long-continued  happiness  I  will  pray  till  the 
post  comes  in.  Yes ;  and  till  life  goes  out  from  poor  H.  L.  P. 
I  would  keep  up  my  spirits — as  you  wish  me — and  your 
spirits  too.  But  how  can  I  ?  Send  a  newspaper  at  least. 
O,  for  a  breath  of  intelligence,  however  short,  respecting 
health  and  engagements  !" 


246  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

She  did  not,  however,  omit  appeals  of  a  substantial 
shape : — 

"  I  wrote  to  find  Mr.  Davie  Robinson,  Villiers  Street,  in 
the  Strand,  and  bade  him,  when  he  sent  my  stock  of  wine 
to  Bath,  put  half  a  dozen  bottles  of  the  very  same  in  a 
basket  and  deliver  to  Mrs.  Rudd,  41  Gerrard  Street,  Soho." 

The  basket  unfortunately  miscarried.  Still  "  I  wish  my 
beloved  friend  to  keep  his  spirits  up,  but  have  enough  to 
do  on  his  dear  account  to  keep  up  my  own.  Yet  shall  not 
the  one  alleviating  drop  of  comfort,  as  you  kindly  call  my 
letters,  ever  fail.  Mrs.  Stratton  saw  the  horrid  paragraph 
inserted  in  the  Courier — she  writes  with  all  possible  tender- 
ness, and,  I  really  do  believe,  true  concern.  Mr.  Bunn's 
elegant  expressions  of  friendship  pleased  me  too."  Elegant 
expressions  of  friendship  !  Here  we  enter  on  the  senti- 
mental strain  ;  and  indeed  love-making  or  love-writing,  at 
this  epoch,  seems  to  have  followed  the  model  of  Yorick 
and  Eliza : 

"  Here  am  I,  however,  praying  most  fervently  for  your 
restoration  to  all  that  makes  life  desirable,  and  giving  God 
thanks  for  the  power  He  lends  me  of  affording  solace  to 
the  finest  soul,  the  fairest  emanation  of  its  celestial  origin 
that  ever  was  inclosed  in  human  clay.  Such  clay  !  But 
we  must  all  be  contented  to  bear  our  cross.  The  paschal 
lamb — type  of  our  blessed  Saviour — was  ordered  to  be 
eaten/'  &c. 

This,  too,  is  another  expedient  with  elderly  lovers — to 
blend  religion  with  their  affection ;  and  as  we  have  seen, 
the  artful  Yorick  become  paternal  and  highly  clerical  in 
his  exhortations,  but  Mrs.  Piozzi  verges  on  the  profane. 
As  Christmas  draws  on  she  touches  a  congenial  string : 

"  Accept,  dearest  Mr.  Conway,  of  a  real  Christmas  pie  : 
it  will  be  such  a  nice  thing  for  you  when,  coming  late  home, 
there  is  no  time  for  a  better  supper ;  but  Bessy  begs  you 


LOVE  AND  DEATH  UPON  THE  STAGE. 


247 


will  not  try  to  eat  the  crust ;  it  will  keep  for  weeks  this 
weather.  The  fleece  should  be  a  golden  one,  had  I  the 
magic  powers  of  Medea ;  but  I  do  think  I  was  baby  enough 
to  be  ashamed  last  night  of  owning  I  had  not  three  pounds 
in  the  house,  except  your  money,  laid  by  for  my  benefit- 
ticket,  which  shall  be  replaced  before  that  day  comes." 

But  he  got  to  Bath  at  last,  and  the  following  agitated 
letter  must  have  made  the  invalid  smile  :  "Half-dead  Bessy 
— more  concerned  at  what  I  feel  for  you  than  what  she  feels 
for  herself — brings  this  note.  Mrs.  Pennington  left  me  in 
real  affliction ;  and  if  she  found  no  billet  at  the  Elephant 
and  Castle  directed  to  her  from  Kingsmead,  will  carry 
home  a  half-broken  heart.  Let  my  maid  see  you,  for 
mercy's  sake.  "'  Lord,  ma'am,'  said  she,  '  why  if  Mr. 
Conway  was  at  Birmingham,  you  would  send  me;  and 
now  he  is  only  three  streets  off.'  "  (Artful  maid !  Here  also 
following  the  immemorial  precedents ;  aged  spinsters  and 
widows,  from  Mrs.  Wadman  downwards,  always  accepting 
such  comfort  from  their  familiars.)  "Go  I  WILL,"  adds 
Mrs.  Piozzi,  in  large  capitals;  "if  I  die  upon  the  road, 
rather  than  see  you  swallowing  down  agony,  and  saying 
nothing  but  how  well  you  are  to  everybody,  when  I  know 
you  are  wretched  beyond  telling  !"  Instead  of  Bessy, 
James  goes;  and  Mr.  Conway  was  implored  to  let  him  at 
"least  see  and  speak  to  you."  Motives  of  delicacy  would 
of  course  account  for  the  substitution. 

Here,  in  another  letter,  it  seems  as  if  Mr.  Sterne  himself 
was  beginning : — 

"  I  would  not  hurry  you  for  the  world.  Take  your  own 
time,  and  do  it  your  own  way  ;  or  rather  suffer  nature  to 
do  it — that  has  done  so  much  for  you ;  more,  I  do  think, 
than  for  any  mortal  man.  See  what  a  scar  the  surgeon, 
however  skillful,  would  have  made  in  that  beautiful  neck  ; 
while  nature's  preparation,  through  previous  agony,  made 


248  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

suppurating  ease  come  on  unfelt;  and  the  wound  heals 
almost  without  a  cicatrix,  does  it  not  ?  So  will  it  be  with 
the  mind.  My  own  hasty  folly  and  my  '  violent  love 
outran  the  pauser  Reason.'  Whilst  I  am  advising  my 
beloved  patient,  however,  to  turn  the  torrent  of  his  fancy 
toward  the  past  occurrences  of  human  life,  the  dear  pathetic 
letter  now  in  my  bosom  forced  me  on  the  same  method 
this  forenoon,  when  my  heart  really  sunk  at  the  thought  of 
such,  coarse  conduct." 

This  high-flown  style  is  delicious;  and  "  suppurating  ease" 
is  true  medical  sentiment.  Mr.  Con  way  had  been  con- 
temned by  a  young  lady  to  whom  he  had  paid  attention, 
on  the  ground  of  his  inferior  station  and  birth.  His  pa- 
troness and  admirer  is  furious,  and  refurbishes  some  of 
those  old  weapons  with  which  she  had  defended  her  Piozzi. 
His  family  was  superior  to  hers,  "des  deux  cotes,  je  sais  ce 
que  je  dis"  She  went  to  a  party,  and  the  image  of  the 
Adonis  thus  attends  her: — 

"Who,  I  wonder,  was  that  tall  man  I  met  at  my  last 
party  ?  his  aspect  shocked  and  haunted  me  like  a  spectre, 
so  apparently  majestic  in  misfortune.  The  master  of  the 
house  was  pointing  me  out  to  him,  as  if  to  win  his  atten- 
tion ;  but  no  look,  no  smile  ensued.  He  was  not  like  you, 
except  his  lofty  carriage.  Yet  I  kept  on  thinking,  so  will 
my  Conway  stand  when  next  I  see  .him.  It  was  an  odd 
feel ;  and  your  distress  presented  itself  so  forcibly  to  my 
imagination  at  the  moment,  that  my  mind  instinctively 
understood — all  was  indeed  over." 

All  this  is  incoherent  and  strange.  Again  the  maid 
comes  on  the  scene  :  "  Bessy  cries  ;  but  begs  me  not  to  lose 
my  life  between  my  scorn  of  your  tormentors,  and  tender- 
ness for  your  health." 

But  it  is  not  uncharitable  to  suppose  that  Bessy  was  look- 
ing for  a  substantial  legacy.  The  old  lady  was  presently 


LOVE  AND  DEATH  UPON  THE  STAGE. 


249 


suffering  all  the  torments  of  jealousy ;  and  certainly  it  is 
pitiable,  if  not  laughable,  to  see  the  condition  of  the  poor 
dame  descending  even  to  the  meanness  of  depreciating  a 
rival. 

Mrs.  Piozzi  writes  with  delight  how  she  treated  this 
family,  who  had  dared  to  trifle  with  her  Con  way.  It  was 
probably  the  old  story — a  young  girl  flattered  at  the  atten- 
tions of  a  handsome  young  fellow  unsuitable  in  station, 
and  the  object  of  her  civility  interpreting  it  as  serious 
encouragement. 

"  Now,  however,  I  rise  to  say  how  the  evening  at  Ecker- 
sall's  passed  off.  Mrs.  Stratton  and  her  eldest  grand- 
daughter came  early ;  so  I  returned  their  salutation  much 
as  usual — only  refusing  the  hands  I  could  not  touch — and 
talked  with  Mr.  Fuller  about  ancient  Thebes,  its  hundred 
gates,  &c.  The  young  lady's  airy  manner — such  as  you  de- 
scribe rightly,  contrasting  with  your  own  cruel  situation — 
quite  shocked  me.  No  crying,  no  cast-down  looks,  no  whim- 
pering, as  last  year — changeful  as  the  weather  or  the  wind, 
she  seems  at  perfect  ease.  Mrs.  Stratton  not  so.  Waddling 
up  to  me  in  the  course  of  the  night,  she  said  she  wanted  to 
talk  with  me.  'Impossible!' was  the  reply.  *  My  life  is 
spent  in  such  a  crowd  of  late.' — '  But  on  a  particular  sub- 
ject, Mrs.  Piozzi.' — '  Lord,  ma'am,  who  can  talk  on  partic- 
ular subjects  in  an  assembly-room  ?  and  the  King  ill  beside  !' 
So  there  it  ended ;  and  for  me  there  it  shall  end." 

Mr.  Conway  could  not  have  been  in  the  least  obliged  to 
her  for  this  championship.  No  doubt  he  would  have  been 
eager  to  know  what  Mrs.  Stratton  had  to  say.  Her  being 
"quite  shocked"  at  the  young  lady's  airy  manner  isjtrue 
old  woman's  spite.  But  presently  she  cannot  contain  her 
spite  and  jealousy : — 

"  'Tis  not  a  year  and  a  quarter  since  dear  Conway, 
accepting  of  my  portrait  sent  to  Birmingham,  said  to  the 


250 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


bringer,  '  O,  if  your  lady  but  retains  her  friendship — O,  if 
I  can  but  keep  her  patronage — I  care  not  for  the  rest.' 
And  now,  when  that  friendship  follows  you  through  sick- 
ness and  through  sorrow — now  that  her  patronage  is  daily 
rising  in  importance — upon  a  lock  of  hair  given  or  refused 
by  une  petite  traltresse  hangs  all  the  happiness  of  my  once 
high-spirited  and  high-blooded  friend.  Let  it  not  be  so. 
EXALT  THY  LOVE,  DEJECTED  HEART,  and  rise 
superior  to  such  narrow  minds.  Do  not,  however,  fancy 
she  will  ever  be  punished  in  the  way  you  mention :  no, 
no  ;  she'll  wither  on  the  thorny  stem,  dropping  the  faded 
and  ungathered  leaves  :  a  china  rose,  of  no  good  scent 
or  flavor,  false  in  apparent  sweetness,  deceitful  when  de- 
pended on — unlike  the  flower  produced  in  colder  cli- 
mates, which  is  sought  for  in  old  age,  preserved  even  after 
death  a  lasting  and  an  elegant  perfume — a  medicine  too,  for 
those  whose  shattered  nerves  require  astringent  remedies  /" 
Then  she  entered  on  a  religious  homily.  It  was  preach- 
ing, she  owned,  but  still  it  came  from  "a  heart,  as  Mrs. 
Lee  says,  twenty-six  years  old,  and,  as  H.  L.  P.  feels  it  to 
be,  all  your  own."  She  would  "  die  to  serve  him  ;"  and 
sends  a  bottle  of  wine,  also  a  partridge.  "The  Courte- 
nays  all  inquired  for  my  Conway ;  all  who  seek  favor  of 
me  ask  for  you  ;  all  but  — ."  Which  aposiopesis,  of  course, 
is  for  the  benefit  of  the  little  traltresse.  Her  indefatigable 
arts  in  trying  to  propitiate  him  show  ingenuity.  She,  as  it 
were,  flies  up  and  down,  driving  a  nail  here,  a  nail  there, 
into  the  coffin  of  his  affection  for  her  rival.  Yet  it  is  easy 
to  see  her  uneasiness,  as  the  ungrateful  thought  must  have 
flashed  across  her  at  times,  that  she  was  too  old  for  these 
dalliances.  Her  impulse  then  was  to  stifle  any  such  asso- 
ciation in  his  mind  by  the  judicious  offering  of  wine,  of  a 
partridge,  or,  more  frequently  still,  by  taking  and  dispos- 
ing of  tickets  for  his  benefit.  The  mixture  of  flattery — the 


LOVE  AND  DEATH  UPON  THE  STAGE. 


251 


wish  to  make  herself  of  importance,  and,  at  the  same  time 
give  turn  the  idea  that  his  merits  alone  were  the  cause  of 
the  sale  of  the  tickets — this  little  contention  of  motives  can 
be  read  plainly  in  the  following :  "  I  was  happy  to  see  my 
dear  friend's  handwriting,  as  soon  as  I  came  home,  and 
the  tickets.  I  must  certainly  have  another  box  secured  in 
my  name,  if  you  have  no  objection.  You  see  by  the  in- 
closed how  they  will  insist  on  coming  to  what  they  call 
my  places.  My  Welsh  friends,  however,  have  more  wit. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Lutwyche  gave  me  two  bank-notes  for  two 
tickets,  and  they  must  have  front  seats  in  the  nest  lege  to 
where  I  sit  myself." 

It  would  almost  seem  that  he  was  disappointed  at  her 
so  cavalierly  refusing  to  listen  to  what  the  mother  of  his 
beloved  had  to  say,  for  the  conversation  came  off  later. 
Some  of  the  passages  are  worth  noting  as  touches  of  human 
character. 

This  was  at  the  end  of  February,  1820,  and  this  is  the 
last  of  these  curious  letters. 

It  was  rumored  in  Flintshire,  Mr.  Hayward  says,  that  she 
proposed  marriage  to  him,  and  that  she  offered  Sir  T.  Salus- 
bury  a  large  sum  for  the  family  seat  in  Wales,  which  she 
wished  to  settle  on  the  actor.  This  Mr.  Hayward  dismisses 
as  a  mere  rumor,  not  worthy  of  any  serious  consideration. 
It  is  admitted,  however,  that  Conway  showed  the  late  Mr. 
Mathews  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Piozzi,  offering  marriage.* 
But  such  proof  is  hardly  needed — any  one  who  follows  the 
details  of  her  infatuation  for  Conway,  will  see  that  her  in- 
flammable nature  could  not  resist  the  passion  which  had 
taken  possession  of  her. 

Within  a  month  of  her  last  letter,  in  May,  1821,  this 
strange  old  lady  died,  aged  eighty- two  years.  The  young 

*  See  the  "  New  Monthly  Magazine.    April,  1861. 


252  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

actor  pursued  his  stage  career.  It  is  not  mentioned  whether 
he  "took,"  as  the  phrase  runs,  anything  under  her  will. 
He  certainly  might  have  had  reasonable  expectations,  even 
as  compensation  for  the  ridicule  he  must  have  endured  in 
Bath  circles.  He  pursued  his  theatrical  course,  but  seems 
to  have  failed  everywhere,  or  to  have  left  an  impression  of 
what  was  neither  satisfaction  nor  dissatisfaction,  and  which 
is  about  as  bad  as  failure.  Disgusted  at  this  indifference, 
he  went  to  America,  and  completed  his  series  of  failures 
out  there.  Too  sensitive  to  laugh  at  newspaper  squibs  and 
critics,  or  even  to  learn  the  art  of  appearing  indifferent, 
he  sank  into  despondency,  and  became  "serious."  This 
again  developed  into  a  morbid  dejection.  On  a  voyage 
from  New  York  to  Charleston  it  was  noticed  how  silent  and 
dejected  he  was,  and  how,  though  the  weather  was  raw,  he 
persisted  in  wearing  only  the  lightest  summer  apparel.  On 
the  24th  of  January,  1828,  when  the  passengers  were  going 
down  to  dinner,  he  told  the  captain  "  he  should  never  want 
dinner  more,"  and  presently  flung  himself  overboard.  The 
body  was  never  recovered.  His  effects  were  sold,  and 
among  them  were  the  curious  letters  which  may  have 
excited  the  amusement  and  pity  of  the  reader.* 

II. 

LA   BELLE   MISS   HENRIETTE. 

In  the  year  1818,  a  tall  handsome  girl,  announced  as 
Miss  Smithson,  made  her  appearance  in  London,  and  was 
received  with  some  favor.  Her  talents  were  considered 
not  very  striking,  but  she  had  a  correct  style,  and  showed 
evidences  of  study.  She  was  indeed  no  more  than  a  third - 

*  They  are  published  in  a  little  pamphlet  by  Mr.  J.  Russell  Smith,  of 
Soho. 


LA   BELLE  MISS  HENRIETTE.  253 

rate  actress,  and  her  name  is  now  scarcely  familiar  to  any 
but  the  professed  students  of  stage  chronicles.  She  came 
from  Ireland,  where  she  had  been  carefully  educated  under 
the  patronage  of  ladies  of  rank  who  took  an  interest  in  her. 
If  the  stage  as  a  profession  has  been  disparaged  it  is  certainly 
the  fault  of  its  members  j  for  society,  even  of  the  highest 
and  most  refined  order,  has  always  been  ready  to  open  its 
ranks  to  actresses  who  have  made  a  reputation  for  genuine 
acting.  There  is  even  an  anxiety  to  cultivate  the  acquaint- 
ance of  legitimate  performers,  and  a  long  list,  from  Mrs. 
Siddons  at  the  beginning  of  the  century,  to  Mrs.  Scott 
Siddons  in  our  day,  could  be  made  out  in  support  of  this 
statement.  It  is  only  when  the  stage  is  perverted  to  pur- 
poses of  exhibition,  as  in  the  case  of  burlesque  pieces  of  a 
vulgar  order,  that  an  exclusion  is  deservedly  maintained. 
Miss  Smithson  soon,  as  the  stage  chronicles  are  careful  to 
tell  us,  found  a  friendly  patroness  in  Lady  Castlecoote  ;  and 
further,  whenever  she  had  a  benefit  "the  names  of  Mrs. 
Coutts,  Lady  and  Sir  Charles  Doyle,  and  the  Countess  of 
Belmore  regularly  appeared  in  her  books. ' '  Miss  Smithson, 
therefore,  might  have  perhaps  been  recollected  as  a  correct, 
well-trained,  interesting  actress,  esteemed  by  her  audiences, 
as  well  as  by  a  circle  of  distinguished  friends  and  patrons. 
Most  of  these  would  have  been  surprised  to  hear  that  she 
was  destined  to  be  the  heroine  of  a  French  melodramatic 
romance. 

In  the  summer  of  the  year  1827,  Laurent,  an  old  clerk 
of  the  Galignanis,  who  had  turned  manager,  and,  from  long 
training  in  the  well-known  library  at  the  Rue  Vivienne,  had 
acquired  a  good  knowledge  of  English  and  English  manners, 
conceived  the  idea  of  bringing  an  English  company  to  Paris. 
He  was  liberal  in  his  offers,  and  determined  to  engage  only 
good  artists.  He  secured  Abbott,  a  pleasant  comedian,  as 
stage  manager  and  actor  ;  Listen,  Charles  Kemble,  and 


254 


THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 


Miss  Smithson ;  with  some  others.  He  offered  twenty- 
four  napoleons  a  week  to  the  leading  performers,  and  paid 
the  expenses  to  and  from  Paris  of  the  whole  party. 

There  happened  to  be  a  gentle  fit  of  Anglomania  abroad, 
one  of  those  attacks  which  agitate  the  emotional  French : 
and  this  was  in  favor  of  the  English  company.  Otherwise 
it  may  be  said,  without  contradiction,  that  the  English 
drama  is  on  the  whole  unintelligible  to  the  French.  Of 
the  better-known  Shakespeare  plays,  such  as  "Othello"  and 
"  Hamlet,"  the  story  is  familiar,  and  they  are  able  to  follow 
a  good  actor  with  some  general  perception  of  what  he  is 
about.  Rage  and  jealousy  is  recognizable  in  all  countries 
and  all  languages.  Again,  this  performance  was  on  the  eve 
of  the  great  romantic  revival,  and  the  young  man  Alexander 
Dumas,  who  was  to  be  one  of  its  apostles,  was,  as  he  tells 
us  in  his  diverting  memoirs,  an  assiduous  visitor  to  the 
Favart  Hall,  where  the  performances  were  given.  He  was 
enchanted  with  the  English  plays  and  players;  and  con- 
fesses, which  is  a  good  deal  from  a  Frenchman,  that  they 
had  a  vast  influence  on  his  own  genius. 

The  series  opened  with  a  performance  of  the  "Rivals,"  in 
which  Liston,  as  Acres,  produced  not  the  slightest  effect. 
Not  a  smile  was  seen  on  the  faces  of  the  audience.  The 
disgusted  low-comedian,  who  at  home  could  produce  a  roar 
by  a  single  glance  of  his  droll  eye,  refused  to  appear  again, 
and  went  home  denouncing  the  Frenchmen  as  "  a  set  of 
jackasses."  This  was  an  inauspicious  commencement. 
Sheridan's  "School  for  Scandal"  was  later  tried,  but  re- 
ceived with  perfect  gravity.  The  most  amusing  incident 
occurred  at  a  later  period,  when  Macready  was  engaged  to 
perform  Othello.  This  he  did  with  such  effect,  that  when 
the  curtain  fell,  some  forty  or  fifty  of  the  audience  leaped 
upon  the  stage  and  insisted  on  overwhelming  the  tragedian 
with  their  embraces.  In  their  enthusiasm,  they  forgot  the 


LA   BELLE   MISS  HENRIETTE.  255 

artificial  character  of  the  Moor's  swarthiness,  and  many  of 
the  gentlemen  showed  on  their  faces  tokens  of  the  honor 
they  had  enjoyed. 

It  was  then  thought  that  tragedy  would  be  more  effective, 
and  Miss  Smithson  came  forward  in  the  agonizing  character 
of  Jane  Shore.  To  the  surprise  of  all  at  home,  the  chord 
was  touched,  the  fair  Smithson  was  discovered  to  be  hand- 
some and  interesting — to  have  an  exquisitely  touching 
voice — to  be  full  of  fire  and  real  tragic  feeling.  The 
Parisians  began  to  rave  of  "la  Smithson,"  or  "Smeet 
sown,"  as  it  no  doubt  became  in  their  mouths,  and  the 
piece  was  performed  five  and  twenty  nights.  In  the  vari- 
ous French  memoirs  and  criticisms  we  come  on  allusions 
to  this  actress,  who  is  spoken  of  with  praises  that  we  should 
have  thought  suited  only  to  the  talents  of  an  O'Neill  or  a 
Jordan.  In  the  Drury  Lane  green-room,  where  she  had 
held  rank  as  a  decent  "walking  lady,"  there  was  much 
wonder  at  this  success.  In  Paris,  the  Royal  Family  used 
to  attend,  and  the  Duke  of  Berry,  who  had  picked  up  some 
English  in  exile,  and  could  use  English  hunting  oaths  with 
good  effect,  was  often  found  behind  the  scenes.  But  it 
was  not  in  this  august  circle  that  her  chief  admirer  was  to 
be  found. 

A  young  medical  student  of  ardent  spirit,  with  a  passion- 
ate love  for  music,  chanced  to  witness  one  of  her  per- 
formances, and  was  captivated  by  the  "belle  Henriette 
Smithson,"  who  had  played  Ophelia.  This  was  the  young 
Berlioz,  a  wild  and  irregular  genius,  whose  essays  are  as 
characteristic  as  his  music.  His  love  became  a  frantic 
passion.  Already  a  composer,  he  found  himself  compelled 
to  express  his  ardor  in  symphoniac  "Deaths  of  Ophelia," 
and  other  Shakesperian  subjects.  His  soul  was  possessed 
by  the  one  subject,  and  could  not  find  rest.  Betimes  he 
would  fly  from  Paris  to  the  country,  and  after  wandering 


256  THE   ROMANCE   OF  THE   STAGE. 

about  all  day  and  walking  miles,  would  hurry  back  in  the 
evening  to  the  theatre  to  witness  the  performances  of  his 
idol.  His  longing  desire  was  to  attract  her  notice  :  for  up 
to  this  time  he  was  but  one  of  the  indistinct  atoms  of  an 
audience,  and  might  have  attended  for  weeks  without  his 
face  ever  attracting  observation.  In  his  desperation  he 
contrived,  though  without  money,  to  get  up  a  concert  for 
the  performance  of  his  works.  But  a  disastrous  failure 
was  the  only  result,  and  his  strange  style  seemed  opposed 
to  all  canons  of  good  music.  Following  the  precedent  of 
many  an  enamored  apprentice  or  draper's  assistant,  he 
began  to  address  letters  to  the  object  of  his  adoration,  but 
these  were  of  so  frantic  and  extravagant  a  description  that 
Miss  Smithson  strictly  enjoined  her  maid  to  take  in  no 
more  from  that  source.  This  mortifying  rebuff,  as  may  be 
imagined,  did  not  cure  him.  By  superhuman  exertions  he 
arranged  a  second  concert,  and  contrived  that  it  should  be 
given  at  the  very  theatre  where  Miss  Smithson  was  playing. 
Their  names  actually  appeared  in  the  same  bill — his  for  the 
morning,  hers  for  the  evening  performance;  this  did  honor 
to  the  perseverance  of  the  love-sick  youth.  But  it  was 
only  an  apparent  rapprochement.  The  concert  succeeded, 
but  Ophelia,  it  would  seem,  was  not  present,  and  was  igno- 
rant whether  it  succeeded  or  failed.  The  following  morn- 
ing he  saw  her  get  into  her  traveling  carriage  and  set  off 
for  England.  Thus  did  the  romance  appear  likely  to  end. 
Distracted  at  this  loss,  he  was  thinking  of  some  desperate 
step,  when  an  ingenious  friend  furnished  the  strangest 
remedy  ever  dreamed  of  in  the  vagaries  of  the  gentle  pas- 
sion. This  gentleman,  who  was  a  German  pianist,  drew 
his  attention  to  a  young  actress  of  the  Boulevards,  who 
was  the  image  of  the  absent  Smithson.  The  idea  was 
seized  on  by  the  deserted  swain,  who  accepted  this  new 
object  as  a  sort  of  image  or  deputy,  and  transferred  his 


LA  BELLE  MISS  HENRIETTE. 


257 


passion  and  attentions  to  her.  The  actress  returned  his 
affection.  The  lover  presently  obtained  the  "prize  of 
Rome"  at  the  Conservatoire,  and  had  to  set  out  for  that 
city  to  pursue  his  studies.  While  there  news  reached  him 
of  the  marriage  of  his  deputy  flame.  In  a  new  paroxysm 
of  despair,  he  fell  into  fresh  extravagance,  and  set  off  for 
France  furnished  with  three  pistols — for  the  husband,  the 
faithless  actress,  and  himself.  At  Genoa  he  took  a  last 
look  at  a  "Fantastic  Symphony"  which  he  had  composed. 
and  dissolved  into  tears  as  he  thought  of  the  works  of 
which  he  might  be  depriving  the  world.  This  produced  a 
gent  e  reaction,  but  a  sudden  paroxysm  caused  him  to  fling 
himself  into  the  sea,  from  whence  he  was  rescued  with  in- 
finite difficulty.  All  this  might  seem  incredible  but  for 
the  well-known  and  recorded  extravagance  of  other  French- 
men un.!er  the  influence  of  a  passion  which,  in  their 
country,  cannot  be  called  "  the  gentle"  one.  His  letter  to 
Victor  Hugo  detailing  his  rescue  has  been  preserved,*  and 
supports  this  account  of  the  transaction.  The  "ducking," 
as  it  would  be  called  in  prose,  seems  to  have  restored  him 
to  his  senses.  He  complains  of  having  been  "  hooked  like 
a  salmon,"  spread  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  for  dead  in  the 
sun,  after  which  he  had  "  violent  vomitings  for  a  whole 
hour."  Calmer  thoug'vs  succeeded,  and  he  resolved  that 
he  would  live  for  the  sake  of  his  two  sisters  and  for  an. 
So  he  returned  to  Rome  to  finish  his  studies. 

Two  years  later  lie  was  in  Fans  again,  bringing  with  him 
the  "  Fantastic  Symphony"  which  had  been  inspired  by 
the  enchanting  Smithson.  He  chose  his  rooms  exactly 
opposite  those  which  she  had  occupied.  He  made  some 
inquiries.  Joy  and  rapture !  she  was  actually  in  Paris,  now 
manageress  of  a  theatre  and  about  to  resume  her  perform- 


u  Les  Contemporains."  article  "  Berlioz.' 
22* 


258 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


ances  !  He  determined  to  resume  his  old  passion — and 
could  do  so  under  favorable  auspices.  He  was  now  an 
artist.  He  resolved  to  try  his  fortune  once  more — with  a 
concert.  A  friend  engaged  to  bring  her,  and  he  had  the 
exquisite  satisfaction  of  seeing  her  seated  among  the  audi- 
ence. The  "Fantastic  Symphony"  of  this  fantastic  being, 
with  all  its  groans  and  cries,  and  ejaculations  of  love,  rage, 
and  despair,  produced  the  effect.  We  are  told  that  the 
young  actress  seemed  to  perceive  that  she  was  the  source 
that  inspired  these  strange  sounds.  She  was  seen  to  weep; 
and  the  next  day  graciously  consented  that  the  eccentric 
young  composer,  who  wooed  in  so  strange  a  fashion,  should 
be  introduced.  He  almost  at  once  proposed  marriage. 

Some  serious  difficulties,  however,  interposed.  Her 
parents  naturally  objected  to  an  alliance  which  was  so  un- 
suitable in  everyway.  So  wild  and  almost  childish  a  lover 
would  be  likely  to  prove  an  undesirable  husband  for  a 
decorous  and  well  brought-up  English  girl.  She  too  had 
her  troubles.  The  speculation  she  had  embarked  in  was  a 
foolish  one.  Almost  the  first  night  she  learned  how  tem- 
porary had  been  her  attraction  :  and  the  fickle  Frenchmen 
did  not  now  care  to  go  and  look  at  la  belle  Henriette.  The 
poor  actress  had  to  sink  all  her  savings  in  this  project — 
and  in  a  short  time,  was  compelled  to  withdraw  from  the 
undertaking.  She  became  bankrupt,  and  was  left  without 
a  shilling. 

The  young  composer,  however,  to  his  credit,  prosecuted 
his  suit.  The  fair  Henriette  at  last  consented,  and  in  the 
year  1833  they  were  married.  But  disaster  seemed  to  pur- 
sue them  :  for  only  a  few  days  after  the  ceremony  she  fell 
and  broke  her  leg.  It  was  found,  too,  that  the  heroine 
had  brought  him  some  heavy  debts  as  her  portion.  But 
he  behaved  with  gallantry  and  devotion,  worked  hard, 
gave  concerts  and  lessons,  and  succeeded,  by  paying  the 


"LOVE  AXD  MADNESS: 


259 


creditors  a  little,  in  inducing  them  to  wait.  Meanwhile 
his  reputation  began  to  spread ;  but  with  that  reputation 
came  violent  prejudices,  which  operated  on  his  character 
and  made  him  fierce  and  combative — ferocious  in  his  ani- 
mosities— and  excited  hosts  of  enemies.  The  story  of  his 
musical  life  is  well  known  to  musicians  and  literary  men. 
and  has  little  to  do  with  the  present  episode. 

It  is  awkward  to  have  to  tell  that  the  result  of  this 
romantic  and  stormy  courtship  was  unsatisfactory.  The 
French  writers  say  that  the  menage  was  an  unhappy  one, 
all  owing  to  "la  belle  Smithson"  whom  he  had  so  loved. 
She  did  not  make  him  happy.  Possessed  by  the  demon  of 
Jealousy,  she  disturbed  the  peace  of  the  household,  so  that 
living  together  became  impossible.  In  other  words,  the 
impulsive  husband  was  liable  at  any  moment  to  become  the 
victim  of  some  new  passion  which  his  English  wife  did  not 
perhaps  tolerate ;  the  hero  of  the  three  pistols,  the  drown- 
ing, &c.,  was  most  likely  to  be  the  disturber  of  the  peace 
of  the  household. 

But  in  the  year  1851,  when  she  was  seized  with  an  attack 
of  paralysis,  it  is  recorded  that  nothing  could  exceed  the 
devotion  and  attention  of  her  husband.  The  same  year 
she  died,  and  thus  ended  a  very  curious  and  little  known 
episode  connected  with  a  romance  of  the  stage. 

III. 

"LOVE   AXD    MADNESS." 

A  notorious  and  disagreeable  character  that  figured  in 
the  fast  life  of  the  last  century  was  the  Earl  of  Sandwich. 
His  private  character  was  of  the  most  abandoned  sort.  In 
his  public  capacity  he  was  highly  unpopular ;  the  nickname 
of  "Jemmy  Twitcher"  showed  in  what  contempt  he  was 


260  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

held.  His  curious  "shambling"  walk  was  always  being 
ridiculed  ;  even  the  poor  old  king,  when  his  wits  had  gone 
beyond  recall,  was  heard  to  repeat  with  a  kind  of  imbecile 
chuckle  the  name  of  "Jemmy  Twitcher."  The  most  odi- 
ous feature  in  his  career  was  his  hypocritical  disloyalty  to 
Wilkes,  with  whom  he  had  shared  in  many  an  orgy,  but 
whose  indecorums  he  stood  up  to  reprobate  in  the  House 
of  Lords — being  shocked  by  his  outrages  against  public 
morality. 

About  the  year  1762  this  exemplary  character,  when 
making  some  purchases  in  a  milliner's  shop  close  to  Co- 
ven.t  Garden,  was  attracted  by  a  very  handsome  girl  who 
was  serving  behind  the  counter.  This  was  a  Miss  Ray,  a 
common  laborer's  daughter  who  had  found  her  way  to 
London  from  Elstree,  and  had  been  apprenticed  to  a 
mantle  maker  at  Clerkenwell.  From  a  picture  of  her  by 
Dance,  her  beauty  would  seem  to  have  been  a  little  exag- 
gerated, and  there  was  more  an  expression  of  interest  than 
of  beauty.  This  accords  with  her  character,  which  was 
retiring  and  amiable.  Within  a  short  time  the  milliner's 
apprentice  had  left  the  shop,  and  had  entered  upon  a  reg- 
ular course  of  accomplishments,  which  was  pursued  for 
some  two  years,  at  the  expense  of  her  noble  patron.  It 
was  discovered  that  she  had  a  fine  voice,  and  one  of 
"Jemmy  Twitcher's"  redeeming  points  being  a  passion 
for  music,  she  soon  began  to  display  her  talent  in  a  re- 
markable fashion,  and  became  a  singer  of  merit. 

She  was  now  installed  at  Hinchinbroke,  Lord  Sand- 
wich's seat,  where  the  lady  of  the  house  had  to  submit, 
with  as  good  a  grace  as  she  could,  to  what  was  at  the  time 
a  not  unfashionable  species  of  affront.  It  was,  however, 
in  some  sense  varnished  over  by  the  prosecution  of  musical 
entertainments,  oratorios,  &c.,  in  which  the  intruding  lady 
took  her  part,  and  indeed  made  an  awkward  position  as 


"LOVE  AND  MADNESS."  261 

little  offensive  as  possible.  For  many  years  this  relation 
continued.  Miss  Ray's  musical  reputation  increased.  The 
noble  amateur  was  fond  of  giving  entertainments,  to  which 
all  the  persons  of  fashion  and  position  were  eager  to  be 
invited,  and  where  Miss  Ray  always  took  the  part  of  lead- 
ing soprano.  She  received  lessons  from  Giardini,  then  a 
singer  of  eminence,  and  also  from  Mr.  Bates.  Lord  Sand- 
wich's concerts  at  Hinchinbroke  show  indeed  that  amateur 
music  was  then  more  advanced  than  would  at  present  be 
supposed.  The  oratorio  of  '  Jephthah'  was  a  favorite  piece. 
The  Duke  of  Manchester's  military  band  made  part  of  the 
orchestra.  Mr.  Bates  led,  while  the  noble  host,  as  Mr. 
Cradock,  a  frequent  guest,  comically  describes  it,  "took 
the  kettle  drums,  to  animate  the  whole.1'  The  '  Non  Nobis' 
was  sung  during  dinner,  and  sometimes  a  glee.  Miss  Ray, 
it  was  admitted,  was  the  chief  attraction,  and  even  the 
ladies  were  pleased  to  remark  how  little  "she  assumed" 
upon  her  situation.  Lady  Blake  indeed  was  so  far  carried 
away  by  her  interest  as  "to  advance  between  the  parts" 
(it  is  the  fussy  Mr.  Cradock  who  tells  us),  and  address 
some  compliments  to  the  fair  soprano.  It  was  noticed, 
however,  that  the  retiring  Miss  Ray  was  really  embarrassed 
at  this  attention.  She  wished  for  no  recognition  beyond  a 
musical  one,  and  the  host  was  heard  to  remark  to  a  friend 
that  he  wished  a  hint  could  be  given  to  the  lady  of  rank 
who  had  paid  the  attention ;  "  for,"  he  added,  "  there  is  a 
boundary  line  in  my  family  which  I  should  not  wish  to  see 
exceeded.  This  sort  of  thing  might  upset  all  our  pleasant 
music  meetings."  However,  when  the  Bishop  of  Lincoln 
(Dr.  Green)  was  also  impelled  to  go  up  to  compliment  her  on 
her  singing  of  "Brighter  Scenes,"  or  of  ,'  Shepherds,  I  have 
lost  my  love,"  or  when  Mrs.  Hinchcliffe,  a  bishop's  lady, 
protested  "feelingly,"  "I  declare  I  am  quite  ashamed  to 
sit  opposite  to  her  and  take  no  notice,  she  is  so  modest  and 


262  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

unassuming !"  it  showed  that  Lady  Blake's  indiscretion  had 
been  rather  severely  dealt  with,  and  that  "our  pleasant 
music  meetings"  could  not  have  been  in  any  serious  danger 
of  being  overset.  A  censorious  public  was,  however,  a  little 
sarcastic  on  this  toleration  by  bishops,  and  some  indifferent 
verses  were  written  on  the  subject : — 

"  When  nobles  and  bishops  and  squires  are  so  silly 

To  attend  the  leve"e  of  Miss  Ray  and  of  Billy, 
.   When  to  show  most  respect  for  the  lord  of  the  place  is, 
By  listening  to  fiddlers — and  praising  his  mistress. 
If  this  be  the  case,  and  you  do  not  dissemble, 
The  cause  do  you  ask?     To  be  sure  it  is  Handel ; 
There's  a  lord  beats  a  drum,  not  yet  by  it  disgraced, 
Since  a  bishop,  perchance,  by  Giardini  is  placed ; 
So  the  high  and  the  low  are  all  jumbled  together 
In  order  that  Jephthah  may  go  off  the  better." 

A  letter  of  hers  which  has  been  preserved  shows  that  the 
education  which  her  protector  was  said  to  have  secured  for 
her,  was  not  of  a  very  high  order:  — 

"  June  27,  1774. 

"Yesterday  was  favored  with  yours,  which  found  me 
very  unwell  indeed,  but  I  myself  sent  the  score  of  Jeph- 
thah directly  to  Miss  Davis.  It  would  have  given  me  great 
pleasure  to  have  heard  Miss  Davis ;  and  I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you  for  all  your  polite  attention  to  me.  My 
opinion  is  that  every  person  will  be  pleased  and  delighted 
with  her.  Though  I  cannot  be  present  at  your  most  re- 
spectable meeting,  which  I  hope  will  be  very  full ;  you 
will  have  my  best  wishes ;  and  that  you  may  continue  well 
yourself.  Should  you  have  any  other  commands  pray  let 
me  know  them,  and  they  shall  be  readily  obeyed." 

Some  years  passed  by,  when  Mr.  Cradock — who  was  a 
sort  of  amateur  litterateur,  and  assiduously  strove  to  secure 
a  portion  of  the  spare  moments  of  men  like  Goldsmith, 


"LOVE  AND  MADNESS: 


263 


Johnson,  Garrick,  and  others — was  asked  to  vote  for  a 
candidate  professor  at  Cambridge,  a  great  friend  of  Lord 
Sandwich's,  and  on  his  return  was  pressed  to  stay  at  Hln- 
chinbroke.  As  he  and  his  host  were  entering  the  house 
they  met  a  couple  of  officers,  who  had  come  to  call ;  one 
of  whom  was  Major  Reynolds  an  acquaintance  of  Lord 
Sandwich,  the  other  a  Captain  of  the  68th  Foot,  who  was 
recruiting  at  Huntingdon.  The  Major  was  asked  to  dine, 
and  then  begged  to  be  allowed  to  introduce  his  friend 
Captain  Hackman, — who  was  also  invited  to  stay. 

They  had  a  small  party  at  dinner — the  two  officers,  Lord 
Sandwich,  Mr.  Cradock,  and  Miss  Ray,  who  came  down 
attended  by  a  lady  friend.  After  dinner  there  was  a  rub- 
ber of  whist.  Captain  Hackman  from  the  first  moment 
was  quite  fascinated  by  Miss  Ray.  He  did  not  join  in 
the  game,  but  "  requested  leave  to  look  over  the  cards." 
Lord  Sandwich  "  retired  early."  The  lady  was  indeed 
now  titular  mistress  of  the  mansion,  and,  it  may  be  pre- 
sumed, had  by  this  time  driven  out  the  rightful  hostess. 
This  little  entertainment  was  to  prove  the  beginning  of  one 
of  the  most  painful  tragedies  of  the  time. 

The  officer  had  commenced  life  by  being  articled  to  a 
merchant,  but  soon  exchanged  this  profession  for  the  army. 
For  the  next  three  weeks  after  the  dinner  he  was  hanging 
about  Hinchinbroke ;  he  used  to  meet  Miss  Ray  on  her 
rides  about  the  place,  and  being  good  looking  believed  that 
he  had  recommended  himself  to  her  good  graces.  He  felt, 
however,  that  he  had  nothing  to  offer  in  exchange  for  her 
present  situation  ;  he  was  very  poor,  and  his  brother-in-law, 
Booth,  was  a  humble  tradesman  in  Cheapside.  She  was 
mother  of  a  family,  and  had  no  inclination  for  following 
about  a  marching  regiment.  In  this  state  of  affairs  he 
obtained  an  introduction  to  the  Commander-in-chief  in 
Ireland,  and  set  off  for  that  country,  in  the  hope  of  ob- 


264  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

taining  some  military  preferment  there.  In  this  he  failed, 
and  the  infatuated  man,  who  had  been  a  merchant's  clerk 
and  a  soldier,  now  once  more  changed  his  profession,  took 
orders,  and  became  the  Rev.  Mr.  Hackman  and  Curate  of 
Wyveston  in  Norfolk. 

This,  however,  did  not  advance  his  suit,  though  he  was 
more  pressing  than  ever  in  his  attentions.  Miss  Ray's 
situation  now  became  embarrassing.  It  was  thought  she 
returned  the  affection  of  her  admirer,  and  was  eager  to 
settle  down  respectably.  Lord  Sandwich  was  advanced  in 
life.  The  customary  "settlement,"  the  object  of  a  pru- 
dent ambition  with  ladies  in  her  situation,  had  not  been 
made  ;  and  her  children  were  not  provided  for.  Her 
musical  gifts,  too,  had  so  developed,  that  she  was  looking 
to  an  engagement  at  the  opera,  where  an  actual  offer  of 
^3000  and  a  free  benefit  had  been  made  to  her.  On  the 
other  hand,  she  felt  the  weight  of  her  obligations  to  one 
who  for  seventeen  years  had  been  her  friend  and  protector. 
Comparing  her,  indeed,  with  other  ladies  of  her  condition, 
she  might  be  considered  comparatively  respectable,  and 
perhaps  more  a  victim  than  a  sinner.  She  at  last  seems  to 
have  found  the  almost  frantic  advances  of  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Hackman  too  embarrassing,  and  amounting  to  an  annoy- 
ance. She  was  anxious  to  check  his  importunities,  to  be 
rid  of  so  dangerous  a  suitor,  and  at  Jast  refused  to  see  him. 
Meanwhile  Lord  Sandwich  was  becoming  highly  unpopu- 
lar;  offensive  ballads  were  sung  under  the  Admiralty 
windows :  and  in  a  riot  which  arose  owing  to  the  Keppel 
acquittal,  she  and  Lord  Sandwich  had  to  escape  in  the 
night  from  the  Admiralty,  and  were  in  much  alarm  from 
mob  violence.  The  unfortunate  woman  was  indeed  pre- 
pared for  the  catastrophe  that  was  presently  to  follow,  by 
presages  in  the  shape  of  alarms,  jealousies,  indecision,  and 
anxiety.  A  friend  or  companion  was  living  with  her, 


"LOVE  AND  MADNESS,"  265 

imposed  on  her,  it  was  later  stated,  as  a  sort  of  duenna,  by 
Lord  Sandwich. 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Hackman  was  in  town,  and  living  in 
Craven  Street.  He  at  last  began  to  be  persuaded  that  she 
had  finally  withdrawn  her  affections  from  him,  and  grew 
almost  desperate.  It  was  now  April  17,  1779,  and  he  had 
discovered  that  she  was  to  go  out  for  the  evening.  He 
tried  to  find  out  where  she  was  going,  but  she  refused  to 
tell  him.  This  filled  the  measure,  and  led  him  to  resolve 
on  his  final  purpose.  He  stationed  himself  in  a  coffee 
house  at  Charing  Cross  to  watch,  and  saw  her  carriage 
go  by  into  the  Strand;  he  followed  and  tracked  her  to 
Covent  Garden  Theatre:  where,  with  her  friend  Signora 
Galli,  the  singer,  she  occupied  a  conspicuous  position  in  a 
front  box.  The  opera  was  "  Love  in  a  Village." 

All  through  the  night  Mr.  Hackman  was  flitting  restlessly 
about  the  house,  now  in  the  galleries,  now  in  the  lobbies, 
frantically  watching,  and  now  retiring  to  the  Bedford  Coffee 
House  to  drink  brandy  and  water.  He  saw  a  great  deal  that 
must  have  inflamed  his  fiiry;  the  "three  gentlemen,  all 
connected  with  the  Admiralty,  who  came  and  occasionally 
paid  their  compliments  to  them."  Mr.  Macnamara,  an 
Irish  Templar,  had  also  paid  his  respects  to  the  ladies,  and 
Miss  Ray  had  been  seen  to  "  coquet  with  him."  The  opera 
came  to  a  conclusion ;  the  lobbies  filled,  and  the  Piazza 
echoed,  with  the  voices  of  chairmen  and  link  boys  calling 
for  coaches. 

Miss  Ray's  carriage  was  waiting,  and  she  herself  was 
coming  out.  Mr.  Macnamara,  the  Irish  Templar,  was  at 
hand,  and  observing  that  she  was  somewhat  crushed  in  the 
crowd,  made  his  way  to  her  and  gave  her  his  arm.  The 
agonized  clergyman  had  seen  all  her  gayety — her  coquetry 
with  the  Templar,  and  her  carelessness  as  to  Jus  absence. 
He  had  pistols  in  his  pocket,  but  had  certainly  come  out 
M  23 


266  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

that  night  with  no  design  against  her.  His  purpose  was  to 
wait  for  her  at  the  theatre  door,  shoot  himself,  and  fall  a 
bloody  corpse  at  her  feet.  The  spectacle  of  all  that  enjoy- 
ment, her  smiles  to  the  dashing  Templar  who  was  conduct- 
ing her  out,  filled  him  with  a  sort  of  frenzy.  The  unfor- 
tunate lady  had  her  foot  on  the  step  of  the  carriage,  when 
a  man  pulled  her  gown ;  as  she  turned  round,  she  felt  a 
pistol  touch  her  forehead.  Another  second  and  it  was  dis- 
charged, and  the  Templar  saw  her  clap  her  hand  to  her 
forehead — an  amazing  exertion,  for  the  skull  was  later  found 
to  be  divided  into  halves  by  the  shot.  The  next  moment 
the  man  had  fired  at  his  own  head  and  was  stretched  on 
the  ground.  The  unhappy  lady  had  sunk  down  bathed  in 
her  blood,  with  which  the  Templar,  as  he  attempted  to 
raise  her,  found  himself  covered.  The  scene  may  be  im- 
agined— at  once  horrible  and  picturesque;  the  flaring 
torches — the  ladies  in  their  dresses  and  ornaments — the 
shouts  for  help — the  wretched  victim  in  her  finery,  "  Sig- 
nora  Galli"  bending  over  her  and  no  doubt  in  hysterics — 
and  the  murderer  on  the  flags,  frantically  beating  his  own 
head  with  the  butt  end  of  his  pistol,  and  shrieking  "Kill 
me!  kill  me!"  for  the  ball  had  only  grazed  the  skull. 
"Thus,"  says  the  customary  notice  of  the  day,  "terminated 
the  existence  of  the  beautiful,  the  favored,  and  yet  the  un- 
fortunate Miss  Ray.  .  .  .  There  was  scarcely  any  polite  art 
in  which  she  was  not  an  adept,  or  any  part  of  female  litera- 
ture (?}  with  which  she  was  not  conversant."  Her  conver- 
sation offered  an  "unparalleled  delicacy  which  character- 
ized her  through  life.  In  short,"  goes  on  the  obituary 
notice  in  a  delicious  passage,  "we  may  pronounce  Miss 
Ray  to  have  been  a  very  amiable  and  valuable  character ; 
for  the  susceptible,  even  among  the  most  chaste,  will  scarce 
think  one  frailty  an  adequate  counterpoise  to  so  many  good 
qualities  :  but,  by  placing  that  single  frailty  to  nature  and 


"LOVE  AND  MADNESS."  267 

her  sex,  must  join  in  the  general  pity  for  so  worthy  and 
accomplished  a  woman." 

The  body  of  "  the  lovely  victim"  was  carried  across  the 
street  to  the  Shakspeare  Coffee  House,  where  also  the  mur- 
derer was  conveyed.  An  express  was  sent  off  to  the  Ad- 
miralty to  Lord  Sandwich,  who  was  expecting  her  home  to 
supper  at  half-past  ten.  As  she  did  not  arrive,  he  grew 
tired,  and  after  waiting  an  hour,  went  to  bed.  He  was 
roused  up  at  midnight  by  his  black  servant,  who  came  with 
the  news.  He  was  quite  stupefied  and  overwhelmed  by 
the  shock — or  as  the  fashionable  newspapers  of  the  day 
expressed  it  more  appropriately,  "  his  Lordship  fell  into 
the  most  lamentable  agonies,  and  expressed  a  sorrow  that 
did  infinite  honor  to  his  feelings:  indeed,  what  feelings 
must  that  man  have  who  would  not  be  agonized  at  such  a 
spectacle .'"  The  latter  portion  of  the  sentence,  it  will  be 
seen,  almost  annuls  the  compliment  in  the  first. 

Hackman's  wound  was  dressed,  and  his  pockets  were 
searched.  There  were  found  two  letters,  one  addressed  to 
Miss  Ray,  containing  a  last  passionate  appeal,  and  fresh 
protestations  of  his  attachment — which  showed  that  he 
had  not  made  up  his  mind  until  perhaps  he  had  reached 
the  theatre,  to  take  any  violent  step.  The  second  letter 
was  to  his  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Booth,  in  which  he  set  out 
hi»-resolution  to  destroy  himself,  and  the  cause.  He  could 
not  live,  he  said,  without  Miss  Ray.  And  since  he  saw 
that  he  was  now  excluded  from  the  house,  and  that  she 
persistently  refused  to  see  him,  he  had  determined  to  de- 
stroy himself.  He  was  besides  overwhelmed  with  debt. 
He  did  not  care  to  live,  and  wished  his  brother  all  the 
felicity  that  he  himself  dared  not  to  hope  for.  It  was 
inferred  from  these  letters  that  he  only  intended  to  kill 
himself,  and  that  he  was  driven  by  a  sudden  and  uncon- 
trollable fit  of  fury  to  kill  her.  Beauclerk,  discussing  this 


268  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

point  with  Johnson,  urged  that  the  two  pistols  were  in- 
tended for  himself  alone — one  being  kept  in  reserve  in 
case  the  first  missed  fire  or  merely  wounded.  The  proba- 
bility, indeed,  is  that  he  left  his  house  with  the  intention 
of  taking  his  own  life ;  and  that  what  he  had  seen  at  the 
theatre  and  at  the  end  of  the  performance,  had  suddenly 
determined  him  to  add  the  other  crime  to  the  first.  This 
seems  to  have  been  the  view  of  Justice  Blackstone  at  the 
trial. 

When  Hackman  was  at  the  Shakspeare,  he  was  asked  by 
the  Templar,  the  question  that  seems  to  be  always  rather 
indiscreetly  put  on  such  occasions,  "Why  he  had  done 
such  a  bloody  deed?"  and  answered  calmly  that  this  was 
not  the  place  for  such  questions.  He  then  earnestly  de 
sired  to  see  his  victim,  supposing  that  she  was  still  alive, 
and  being  told  that  she  was  dead,  begged  that  her  poor  re 
mains  might  not  be  exposed  to  the  view  of  the  curious. 
Sir  John  Fielding,  the  blind  magistrate,  arrived,  at  five  in 
the  morning,  and  finding  that  his  wounds  were  not  serious, 
made  out  his  committal  to  the  Bridewell.  He  was  at  onc( 
carried  to  the  prison  ;  and  when  he  arrived  there  he  broke 
out  into  frantic  protestations  of  his  attachment,  and  talked 
of  his  victim  with  all  the  extravagance  of  the  maddest 
love. 

That  day  the  news  was  all  over  the  town.  Parson  War 
ner,  perhaps  the  most  disreputable  member  of  his  cloth  in 
his  day,  was  dining  at  "Harry  Hoare's"  with  a  jovial 
party,  where  all  the  talk  was  about  Miss  Ray.  Knowing 
his  friend  George  Selwyn's  indecent  curiosity  or  craze 
about  such  matters,  he  called  at  the  tavern  where  the  re- 
mains of  the  unfortunate  lady  were  laid  out  waiting  the  in- 
quest, and  did  his  best  to  get  in  and  have  a  view  of  them ; 
so  as  to  send  a  full  account  of  the  morbid  spectacle.  But 
he  had  no  interest,  he  said,  with  the  doorkeepers — and 


"LOVE  AND  MADNESS: 


269 


money  was  refused.  The  newspapers,  later  affected  to  joke 
on  Mr.  Selwyn's  interest  in  these  matters,  and  declared 
that  he  was  detected  sitting  at  the  head  of  the  corpse,  dis- 
guised in  a  mourning  cloak.  On  the  fourteenth  day  she 
was  taken  down  to  Elstree  and  interred  in  a  vault  there. 
Her  father,  to  whom  she  had  always  allowed  a  small  pen- 
sion, was  still  alive.  Lord  Sandwich  retired  to  the  coun- 
try, and  indeed  altogether  from  society.  When  he  emerged, 
however,  not  being  able  to  resist  his  favorite  music,  per- 
formers would  awkwardly  select  airs  in  which  the  deceased 
singer  used  to  distinguish  herself,  such  as  ' '  Shepherds,  I 
have  lost  my  love  !"  and  though  "  Mr.  Bates"  saw  the  un- 
fortunate character  of  the  melody,  it  was  too  late  to  rectify 
the  mistake,  and  his  Lordship  was  seen  to  retire  from  the 
party  in  great  distress. 

The  trial  came  on.  The  prisoner  was  determined  to 
plead  guilty,  but  at  the  last  moment  was  prevailed  on,  per- 
haps by  the  entreaties  of  his  sister,  to  enter  the  usual  plea. 
The  case  was  of  course  proved  conclusively.  He  made  a 
rather  pathetic  defense.  He  said  he  had  no  wish  to  live. 
"  I  stand  here  the  most  wretched  of  human  beings,  and 
confess  myself  criminal  in  a  high  degree :  yet  while  I  ac- 
knowledge with  shame  and  repentance  that  my  determina- 
tion against  my  own  life  was  formed  and  complete,  I  pro- 
test with  that  regard  to  truth  which  becomes  my  situation 
that  the  will  to  destroy  her  who  was  dearer  to  me  than  life 
was  never  mine  till  a  momentary  frenzy  overpowered  me, 
and  induced  me  to  commit  the  deed  I  deplore.  I  have  no 
wish  to  avoid  the  punishment  which  the  laws  of  my  country 
appoint  for  my  crime ;  but  being  already  too  unhappy  to 
feel  a  punishment  in  death  or  a  satisfaction  in  life,  I  submit 
myself  with  penitence  and  patience  to  the  disposal  and 
judgment  of  Almighty  God."  This  was  of  course  a  pre- 
pared appeal,  and  has  rather  an  artificial  tone.  On  the 


270 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


other  hand,  a  person  in  such  a  situation  may  not  be  able  to 
trust  to  a  natural  eloquence,  and  though  the  words  may 
have  been  conned  by  rote,  the  sentiment  might  be  perfectly 
genuine.  He  received  sentence  with  calm  composure,  and 
Lady  Upper  Ossory  was  able  to  write  for  the  satisfaction 
of  her  friend  Selwyn,  who  was  still  greedy  of  particulars, 
"that  Mr.  Hackman's  behavior  was  glorious  yesterday  /" 
This  is  good  evidence  of  the  "toadyism"  with  which  the 
opulent  bachelor  was  gratified,  ladies  of  rank  and  condition 
being  thus  eager  to  cater  for  his  unseemly  mania. 

Lord  Carlisle,  who  specially  attended  the  execution  in 
order  to  furnish  particulars  to  his  friend  Mr.  Boswell,  was 
even  more  fortunate,  and  was  privileged  with  a  seat  in  the 
mourning  coach  opposite  the  prisoner.  "  I  am  this  mo- 
ment returned  from  it,"  wrote  the  Earl.  "  Everybody  in- 
quired after  you,  you  have  friends  everywhere.  The  poor 
man  behaved  with  great  fortitude :  no  appearances  of  fear 
were  to  be  perceived,  but  many  evident  signs  of  contrition 
and  repentance.  He  was  long  at  his  prayers,  and  when  he 
flung  down  his  handkerchief  for  a  signal  for  the  cart  to 
move  on,  Jack  Ketch,  instead  of  instantly  whipping  on  his 
horses,  jumped  on  the  other  side  of  him  to  snatch  up  the 
handkerchief,  lest  he  should  lose  his  fights,  and  then  re- 
turned to  the  head  of  the  cart ;  then,  with  the  gesture  so 
faithfully  represented  by  your  friejid  Lord  Wentworth, 
Jehu' d  him  out  of  the  world."  It  seems  amazing  that  so 
indecent  a  tone  should  have  prevailed  among  men  of  edu- 
cation ;  it  seems  to  have  been  part  of  a  system,  as  Mr. 
Storer,  another  man  of  pleasure  of  the  time,  specially  at- 
tended Dr.  Dodd's  execution,  and  wrote  a  lively  account 
of  the  proceedings,  also  for  the  entertainment  of  his  friend 
Mr.  George  Selwyn. 

Thus  ended  this  tragical  history. 


DEATH  AT  THE  FOOTLIGHTS.  271 


IV. 
DEATH   AT   THE   FOOTLIGHTS. 

As  death  "  visits  with  equal  impartiality  the  palace  .of 
the  rich  and  the  hovel  of  the  poor,"  it  is  scarcely  to  be 
expected  that  he  would  stay  his  hand  during  the  glittering 
reign  of  stage  delusion.  Considering  that  this  covers  a 
period  equal  to  nearly  a  fifth  part  of  the  day,  and  that  in  a 
great  city  like  London  so  many  thousands  are  concerned 
in  the  business, — that  the  conditions  of  performing  imply 
labor  and  much  excitement  of  the  nerves  and  heart,  while 
the  heated  atmosphere,  glaring  lights,  &c.,  are  scarcely 
favorable  to  health,  it  might  be  expected  that  theatrical  life 
would  exhibit  a  more  than  average  death  rate.  Still,  when 
we  think  that  in  spite  of  the  numbers  who  night  after  night 
make  up  the  audiences,  how  rare  is  an  instance  of  sudden 
death,  we  might  be  almost  tempted  to  assume  that  within 
those  charmed  portals  life  was  tolerably  secure,  and  that 
there  death  was  no  more  a  reality  than  the  mim'c  dissolu- 
tion witnessed  on  the  stage.  It  would  be  scarcely  fanciful 
to  ascribe  this  immunity  to  a  sense  of  absorbed  interest — 
the  grateful  occupation  of  the  mind,  which  suspends,  as  it 
were,  the  advance  of  decay,  or  illness ;  though  no  doubt 
many  instances  could  be  produced  of  sudden  seizure  or 
death  after  returning  from  the  theatre.  It  is  certainly 
pleasant  to  think  that  those  skillful  and  hardworking  enter- 
tainers whose  life  is  devoted  to  the  duty  of  increasing  "  the 
public  stock  of  harmless  amusement"  should  for  the  most 
part  have  found  their  occupation  healthful,  and  in  many 
instances  have  reached  to  an  honorable  old  age.  There  can 
be  no  doubt  that  "legitimate"  histrionic  gifts,  no  matter 
how  laboriously  exercised,  are  favorable  to  length  of  life, 


272 


1HE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 


and  that  the  stage  is  about  as  healthful  a  profession  as  that 
of  the  lawyer. 

Many  actors  have  been  seized  with  mortal  illness  either 
on  the  stage  or  shortly  after  leaving  it,  and  have  survived 
but  a  short  time.  But  the  instances  of  death  while  actually 
on  the  stage  are  very  few  indeed.  The  "leading  case"  is 
of  course  that  of  Palmer, — "Jack  Palmer,"  as  he  was 
familiarly  styled, — one  of  the  most  airy  and  animated  com- 
edians of  the  English  stage — the  original  Joseph  Surface — 
for  whom  the  part,  it  is  said,  was  written  ;  and  whose  nat- 
urally insincere  character  furnished  the  author  with  a  good 
many  artful  touches.  His  acting  too  helped  Lamb  to  illus- 
trate his  favorite  theory,  that  comedy  should  be  pitched  in 
a  key  somewhat  above  the  tones  of  ordinary  life — and 
should  not  be  an  accurate  reproduction  of  the  manners 
and  the  humors  of  the  day.  Author  and  actor,  it  seemed 
to  him,  should  pierce  to  the  motives  and  universal  princi- 
ples of  human  nature,  of  which  such  surface  manifestations 
are  merely  results — whereas  the  average  realist  is  no  more 
than  a  laborious,  unintelligent  copyist.  This  passage  in 
the  Elia  Essays  unquestionably  contains  the  true  principle 
of  Comedy  acting  and  Comedy  writing,  and  accounts  for 
the  failure  of  so  many  intelligent  writers  of  our  time. 

Kotzebue's  lugubrious  play  of  "  The  Stranger,"  after 
furnishing  occasion  for  another  great  "creation"  to  Kem- 
ble,  had  found  its  way  to  the  provinces,  and,  in  the  year 
1798,  was  being  acted  at  Liverpool.  Palmer  was  engaged, 
and  with  some  inappropriateness  had  taken  the  part  of  the 
misanthropical  hero.  Still  a  comedian  of  genius  might 
give  a  very  satisfactory  interpretation  of  a  tragical  char- 
acter, though  an  eminent  tragedian  would  scarcely  be  at 
home  in  the  comedian's  part.  In  August  the  theatrical 
world  was  shocked  with  the  following  account  of  his  sudden 
death  on  the  stage,  which  went  the  round  of  the  papers : — 


DEATH  AT  THE  FOOTLIGHTS.  273 

"  DEATH   OF  JOHN   PALMER. 

"On  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  he  was  to  have 
performed  'The  Stranger,'  he  received  for  the  first  time 
the  distressing  intelligence  of  the  death  of  his  second  son, 
a  youth  in  whom  his  tenderest  hopes  were  centred,  and 
whose  amiable  manners  had  brought  into  action  the  ten- 
derest affections  of  a  parent.  The  play,  in  consequence 
of  this,  was  deferred  ;  and,  during  the  interval,  he  had  in 
vain  endeavored  to  calm  the  agitation  of  his  mind.  The 
success  with  which  he  performed  the  part  called  for  a  second 
representation,  in  which  he  fell  a  sacrifice  to  the  poignancy 
of  his  own  feelings,  and  when  the  audience  were  doomed 
to  witness  a  catastrophe  which  was  truly  melancholy. 

"In  the  fourth  act,  Baron  Steinfort  obtains  an  interview 
with  the  Stranger,  whom  he  discovers  to  be  his  old  friend. 
He  prevails  on  him  to  relate  the  cause  of  his  seclusion  from 
the  world :  in  this  relation  the  feelings  of  Mr.  Palmer  were 
visibly  much  agitated,  and  at  the  moment  he  mentioned 
his  wife  and  children,  having  uttered  (as  in  the  character), 
'  there  is  another  and  a  better  world  ?  he  fell  lifeless  on  the 
stage.  The  audience  supposed  for  the  moment  that  his 
fall  was  nothing  more  than  a  studied  addition  to  the  part ; 
but  on  seeing  him  carried  off  in  deadly  stiffness,  the  utmost 
astonishment  and  terror  became  depicted  in  every  counte- 
nance. Hamerton,  Callan,  and  Mara  were  the  persons 
who  conveyed  the  lifeless  corpse  from  the  stage  into  the 
green-room.  Medical  assistance  was  immediately  pro- 
cured ;  his  veins  were  opened,  but  they  yielded  not  a 
single  drop  of  blood,  and  every  other  means  of  resusci- 
tation were  had  recourse  to  without  effect. 

"The  gentlemen  of  the  faculty,  finding  every  endeavor  in- 
effectual, formally  announced  his  death ;  the  surgical  opera- 
tions upon  the  body  continued  about  an  hour ;  after  which, 

M* 


274 


THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 


all  hopes  of  recovery  having  vanished,  he  was  carried 
home  to  his  lodgings  on  a  bier,  where  a  regular  inventory 
was  taken  of  his  property.  Mr.  Aickin,  the  manager, 
came  on  the  stage  to  announce  the  melancholy  event  to 
the  audience,  but  was  so  completely  overcome  with  grief 
as  to  be  incapable  of  uttering  a  sentence,  and  was  at  length 
forced  to  retire  without  being  able  to  make  himself  under- 
stood :  he  was  bathed  in  tears,  and,  for  the  moment,  sunk 
under  the  generous  feelings  of  his  manly  nature.  Incledon 
then  came  forward,  and  mustered  sufficient  resolution  to 
communicate  the  dreadful  circumstance.  The  house  was 
instantly  evacuated  in  mournful  silence,  and  the  people, 
forming  themselves  into  parties,  contemplated  the  fatal 
occurrence  in  the  open  square  till  a  late  hour  next  morn- 
ing. Doctors  Mitchell  and  Corry  gave  it  as  their  opinion 
that  he  certainly  died  of  a  broken  heart,  in  consequence^ 
of  the  family  afflictions  which  he  had  lately  experienced." 

This  incident  was  shocking  enough,  but  what  pecu- 
liarly affected  the  public  mind  was  the  strange  coincidence 
of  its  occurring  after  the  utterance  of  the  words  "  there  is 
another  and  a  better  world."  The  party  of  the  community 
who  regarded  the  stage  as  a  nursery  of  all  that  was  sinful 
and  demoralizing,  seized  the  occasion  to  point  a  moral ; 
and  were  not  slow  to  see  in  this  visitation  something  of  a 
judgment.  It  was  thought  that  the  actor  who  would  talk 
with  histrionic  levity  of  that  "  other  and  better  world"  to 
which  his  profession  could  not  lead  him,  was  appropriately 
chastised  at  such  a  moment, — and  that  his  fate  was  a  warn- 
ing. This  view  was  urged  in  pamphlets  and  from  the 
pulpit ;  and  owing  to  these  exertions  the  story  has  become 
firmly  established  as  a  melancholy  tradition  of  the  stage. 

Much  of  this  dramatic  element  vanishes  when  it  is  ascer- 
tained that  the  event  took  place  at  another  passage  of  the 
piece.  The  words  "another  and  a  better  world"  occur 


DEATH  AT  THE  FOOTLIGHTS.  275 

in  the  second  act ;  the  unfortunate  actor  had  reached  the 
fourth  act,  and  was  speaking  about  the  children  to  Whit- 
field,  who  played  Baron  Steinfort.  When  he  came  to  the 
words  "  I  left  them  at  a  small  town  hard  by,"  the  memory 
of  his  own  loss  no  doubt  rushed  upon  him, — and  after  some 
vain  attempts  to  articulate  the  words,  he  fell  lifeless  on  the 
stage.  After  all,  there  is  something  more  pathetic  in  this 
version. 

Mr.  Cummins,  who,  as  we  hare  seen,  was  one  of  Tate 
Wilkinson's  leading  actors,  and  supposed  at  York  "  to  read 
Shakespeare  better  than  any  man  in  England"  (and  in  the 
provinces  performers  thus  gifted  are  almost  as  numerous  as 
that  commonly  met  animal  "  the  best  horse  in  the  king- 
dom"), has  been  already  sketched.  Indeed  he  was  con- 
sidered at  York  to  excel  even  Barry  in  sweetness  of  voice, 
but,  encouraged  by  the  applause  of  that  town,  he  grew  to 
roar  and  rant,  so  that  when  Kemble  came  to  display  his 
own  more  regular  talents,  be  was  told  candidly  by  the  gal- 
lery that  "  he  cud  na  shoot  oot  laik  Coomens."  In  virtue 
of  his  popularity  he  retained  all  the  round  of  youthful 
characters,  though  of  good  age  and  great  bulk.  On  the 
evening  of  June  zoth,  1817,  be  was  playing  in  "Jane 
Shore"  at  the  Leeds  Theatre,  and  in  the  last  scene  was 
uttering  the  well-known  speech — 


-  Be  wtaac  far  me.  je  celestial  hosts, 


when  he  suddenly  tottered,  sank  down  and  expired.  The 
audience  assumed  this  to  be  part  of  the  piece,  and  applauded 
heartily.  Perhaps  the  poor  player's  suffering  at  that  mo- 
ment lent  a  realism  to  the  performance  to  which  in  all  his 
career  he  had  never  yet  reached.  When  the  news  became 


276  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

known  the  deepest  sympathy  was  felt,  and  the  whole  town 
thrown  into  commotion.  This  instance  would  have  been 
yet  more  favorable  to  the  theory  of  "  a  judgment"  put  for- 
ward by  the  "saints,"  and  have  pointed  a  moral  more 
effectively  than  the  case  of  Palmer. 

An  actor  named  Bond  was,  in  1735,  playing  the  old  man 
Lusignan,  and  while  sitting  in  an  arm-chair,  had  fervently 
uttered  the  blessing  on  his  children,  set  down  in  his  part. 
When  Zara  came  to  reply  she  found  that  he  had  expired  in 
his  chair. 

Peterson's  end  had  nearly  the  same  appropriateness  as 
Curnmins's.  In  October,  1758,  when  he  was  playing  the 
Duke  in  "  Measure  for  Measure,"  with  Moody,  he  came  to 
the  words — 

"  Reason  thus  with  life  : 
If  I  do  lose  thee,  I  do  lose  a  thing 
That  none  but  fools  would  keep ; 

a  breath  thou  art " 

when  he  fell  into  Moody's  arms  and  shortly  after  expired. 
He  must  have  been  a  pleasant  creature,  to  judge  by  the 
solitary  recorded  instance  of  his  humor,  which  perhaps  his 
sudden  end  caused  to  be  remembered.  He  was  pressing  a 
brother  actor  for  the  repayment  of  a  sum  of  two  shillings, 
now  long  due  :  "  Let  a  fellow  alone,"  was  the  reply,  "  I  am 
sure  to  pay  you  in  some  shape  or  other."  Peterson  an- 
swered good-humoredly,  "  I  shall  be  obliged  to  you  to  let 
it  be  as  much  like  two  shillings  as  you  can." 

His  friends  placed  on  his  tomb-stone,  in  St.  Edmund's 
Bury,  the  last  words  he  uttered. 

The  latest  instance  of  all  is  the  recent  one  of  Mr.  Jordans, 
a  respectable,  painstaking  actor,  who,  a  few  months  ago, 
was  struck  down  when  upon  the  stage. 

Seizure  by  apoplexy  or  other  illness  on  the  stage,  shortly 
followed  by  death — as  in  the  cases  of  Peg  Woffington, 


DEATH  AT  THE  FOOTLIGHTS. 


277 


Farren,  Harley,  Fulham  at  Dublin  in  the  year  1826, 
scarcely  fall  within  this  category.  The  players  were  ad- 
vanced in  life,  and  the  stage  was  scarcely  connected  with 
the  attacks. 

"The  last  night,"  says  the  quaint  Wilkinson,  "Frod- 
sharn  ever  spoke  on  the  stage  was  in  October,  1768.  After 
playing  Lord  Townly,  and  though  in  apparent  great  spirits, 
he  died  within  three  days  after : — 

"  '  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  on  Monday  evening  "  Corio- 
lanus."  To  which  will  be  added'  (looking  seriously,  and 
laying  his  hand  on  his  heart) 

'  What  we  must  all  come  to  ! ' 

which  expression  will  serve  as  a  pause  to  my  imperfections 
and  digressions,  and  afford  my  reader  a  leisure  for  five 
minutes'  reflection." 

Several  more  instances  could  no  doubt  be  quoted,  but 
these  will  be  found  sufficiently  typical.* 

*  The  reader  may  be  referred,  for  some  curious  details  of  the  life  behind 
the  curtain,  to  a  series  of  interesting  papers  that  have  lately  appeared  in 
"All  the  Year  Round,"  with  the  following  titles: — "  Doubles,"  No.  222; 
"  Theatrical  Gagging."  No.  271 ;  "  Goose,"  No.  200 ;  "  Come  the  Re- 
corders," No.  146 ;  "  Stage  Whispers,"  No.  150 ;  "  In  the  Pit."  No.  154 ; 
"  Bill  of  the  Play,"  No.  156  ;  "  Stage  Banquets,"  No.  164 ;  "  The  Super," 
No.  175  ;  "  Strolling  Players,"  No.  182 ;  and  "  Stage  Wigs,"  No.  185. 


278  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE   IRELAND    FORGERIES. 

THE  story  of  the  Ireland  forgeries  is  singularly  interest- 
ing as  exhibiting  a  tour  de  force  second  only  to  the  more 
wonderful  attempt  of  Chatterton.  It  wants,  however,  the 
romantic  element,  and  the  piteous  issue  which  almost  re- 
deemed the  follies  of  the  "marvelous  boy,"  —  beside 
whose  genius  and  poetical  power,  the  efforts  of  his  imi- 
tator sink  into  a  vulgar  imposture.  The  cynic,  however, 
may  find  a  satisfaction  in  seeing  how  the  Shakespearian 
critics  of  the  day  were  duped,  such  of  them,  at  least, 
whose  pretensions  amounted  to  no  more  than  a  vague 
v  enthusiasm,  and  vehement  controversial  ardor  where  their 
notes  and  commentaries  were  concerned. 

One  Samuel  Ireland,  who  had  been  a  Spitalfields  silk 
mercer,  had  been  led  to  abandon  his  trade  for  what  was 
supposed  to  be  antiquarian  and  literary  pursuits,  but  which 
was  virtually  th6  adoption  of  a  new  trade.  He  collected 
rare  old  English  editions  with  a  view  to  their  resale  at 
large  prices,  a  taste  for  securing  such  treasures  then  be- 
coming fashionable.  In  these  matters  he  had  some  knowl- 
edge, and  a  certain  enthusiasm,  which  gave  an  interest  and 
energy  to  his  pursuit.  He  also  devoted  himself  to  the 
preparation  of  pictorial  "journeys,"  illustrated  by  sepia 
lithographs,  which  occasionally  turn  up  on  stalls,  and  which 
were  described  at  the  time  as  "elegant  Tours  which  may 
be  regarded  as  works  of  standard  taste."  On  one  of  his 
expeditions  to  Stratford  he  brought  with  him  his  son  Wil- 


THE  IRELAND  FORGERIES.  279 

liam  Henry,*  a  lad  of  sixteen,  whom  the  father's  enthusiasm 
and  the  sight  of  the  various  relics  of  the  place  had  inspired 
with  quite  a  Shakespearian  glow.  By  constantly  dwelling 
on  the  subject,  and  living  in  a  sort  of  Shakespearian  atmos- 
phere, this  feeling  soon  became  a  sort  of  morbid  passion  or 
mania — so  absorbing  as  to  curiously  extinguish'  all  feeling 
of  morality  or  principle.  The  young  Ireland  had  heard 
of  Chatterton's  story,  then  recent.  The  extraord  n  ry  in- 
terest which  had  been  excited  by  it  had  a  strange  fasci- 
nation for  him.  He  himself  was  clever,  skillful  in  shifts 
and  devices  of  penmanship,  and  found  himself  irresistibly 
drawn  to  make  attempts  in  the  same  direction.  One  tri- 
fling success  was  fatal  encouragement.  He  possessed  an  old 
vellum-bound  volume,  with  arms  displayed  on  the  covers, 
and  a  dedication  from  the  author  to  Queen  Elizabeth.  A 
curious  idea  occurred  to  him.  He  mixed  water  with  his 
ink  to  lighten  the  color,  and  on  the  fly  leaf  proceeded  to 
compose  and  write  a  sort  of  inscription  to  the  Queen  ;  as 
though  the  volume  had  been  a  presentation  copy.  He  then 
brought  it  to  his  father,  who,  he  says,  was  enchanted,  and 
accepted  it  as  genuine.  This  is  his  own  story,  but  it  will 
be  seen  later  that  it  was  currently  believed  that  the  father 
was  privy  to  the  whole  imposture.  Greatly  encouraged  by 
these  praises,  he  was  eager  to  go  on :  and  the  subject  of  his 
second  attempt  shows  how  reckless  and  daring  he  had 
become  even  already.  He  had  noticed  in  a  shop  win- 
dow a  small  terra-cotta  bust  of  Cromwell,  which  had  been 
rather  cleverly  executed  by  some  living  modeler.  He 
brought  it  home,  pasted  a  piece  of  paper  on  the  back  with 
an  inscription  in  sham  "  old  writing"  to  the  effect  that  it 
had  been  "a  present  to  Bradshaw"  from  the  Protector 
himself.  His  father  again  fell  into  raptures.  It  was  ex- 

*  Born  1775.  died  1835. 


28o  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

hibited  to  the  curious.  Some  of  the  clever  people  presently 
discovered  that  "it  was  in  the  manner  of  Simon,"  an  emi- 
nent sculptor  of  Cromwell's  day.  But  what  was  regarded 
as  making  the  authority  of  the  bust  certain,  was  that  the 
handwriting  at  the  back  was  pronounced  to  be  "  wonder- 
fully like  Bradshaw's  !" 

The  young  fellow  determined  to  aim  at  higher  game.  It 
was  now  in  the  year  1793,  and  he  was  just  eighteen.  He 
cut  off  a  sheet  of  parchment  from  an  old  deed, — a  binder 
whom  he  knew  had  shown  him  how  to  mix  a  more  decep- 
tive kind  of  ink, — and  placing  some  writing  of  the  period 
before  him,  he  proceeded  to  prepare  a  lease  between  Shake- 
speare and  one  Hemminge,  duly  witnessed  and  sealed.  To 
insure  a  difference  in  the  handwriting  he  wrote  the  wit- 
nesses' name  with  his  left  hand.  The  seal  was  a  more 
serious  difficulty.  He  tried  to  melt  down  some  of  the 
seals  attached  to  the  old  deed,  but  he  found  that,  instead 
of  softening,  when  he  held  them  to  the  fire  they  were  baked 
away  into  powder.  His  ingenuity  suggested  a  better  plan. 
He  heated  a  sharp  knife,  sliced  off  the  top  surface  with 
the  impression,  and,  joining  it  to  a  piece  of  modern  wax, 
inserted  the  usual  piece  of  ribbon  between  to  attach  it  to 
the  deed.  Having  thus  completed  his  task,  he  walked  into 
his  father's  room,  whom  he  was  always  thus  surprising, 
saying,  "Sir,  I  have  a  great  curiority  to  show  you,"  then 
drew  it  out,  and  laid  it  on  the  table  with  "There,  sir, 
what  do  you  think  of  that.'"  The  father  was  astonished 
and  delighted.  The  curiosity  was  exhibited  to  the  con- 
noisseurs, and  pronounced  genuine  beyond  a  doubt.  Even 
the  seal  (selected  at  hazard),  which  bore  the  impression  of 
a  quintain,  was  found  to  be  a  device  in  some  way  connected 
with  the  Bard,  and  in  a  short  time  it  came  to  be  stated 
with  all  gravity  that  this  "  was  Shakespeare' 's  favorite  seal." 
No  better  satire  than  this,  it  may  be  repeated,  could  be 


THE  IRELAND  FORGERIES.  28l 

found  on  the  state  of  self-delusion  to  which  an  immoderate 
passion  may  lead  the  collector.  Mr.  Pickwick's  discovery 
is  even  less  absurd. 

The  enthusiasm  continued  to  increase,  and  numbers  ar- 
rived every  day  to  inspect  the  newly  discovered  treasure. 
It  was  tested  and  criticised  in  every  way,  and  when  there 
was  any  difficulty  started,  it  was  met  by  some  ready  solu- 
tion. But  already  his  discovery  was  bringing  inconven- 
iences. He  was  pressed  with  eager  questionings — as  to 
where  the  treasure  had  come  from :  where  such  a  travraiUt 
had  been  more  was  certain  to  be :  and  forthwith  a  story 
had  to  be  cautiously  and  ingeniously  devised.  The  story 
was  as  follows: — It  seems  there  was  an  old  gentleman  of 
antiquarian  tastes  with  whom  he  had  become  acquainted  at 
a  coffee  house,  and,  who  finding  out  that  he  had  an  anti- 
quarian taste,  mentioned  that  he  had  a  roomful  of  old 
papers,  documents,  &c.,  which  he  was  welcome  to  exam- 
ine, and  also  to  take  away  what  suited  him.  The  young 
man  had  gone,  and  speedily  discovered  the  precious  Shake- 
spearian deed.  The  old  gentleman  was  a  little  surprised, 
but  said  he  would  not  go  back  from  his  word.  The  young 
Ireland  had  also  discovered  some  valuable  family  papers, 
and  the  old  gentleman,  grateful  for  the  service,  was  glad 
to  compliment  him  with  a  present.  This  cloudy  story 
was  accepted  with  all  faith  by  the  antiquarians,  though  not 
without  impatience.  What  was  the  name  of  this  wonder- 
ful being,  whom  they  longed  to  invade  ?  That,  however, 
he  had  been  solemnly  pledged  never  to  reveal.  Presently, 
no  less  personages  than  Dr.  Parr  and  Dr.  Warton  became 
interested  in  the  subject,  and  curious  to  see  the  relics. 
There  was  not  much,  after  all,  to  show  such  important 
people :  b  t  his  father  was  pressing  him  to  make  fresh  in- 
quiries and  searches;  such  remissness  was  culpable.  So 
within  a  short  time  a  "  Profession  of  Faith"  of  a  Protestant 
24* 


282  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

character  was  discovered  in  Shakespeare's  own  handwriting 
This  treasure,  it  was  announced,  Doctors  Parr  and  Wartor 
were  coming  to  see.  He  began  to  feel  nervous,  and  would 
have  given,  he  owns,  anything  to  avoid  the  meeting.  The 
document  was  inspected  and  read  out,  and  to  his  amaze- 
ment the  great  Dr.  Parr  said  gravely,  "Sir,  we  have  very 
fine  passages  in  our  Services,  but  here  is  one  who  has  dis- 
taficed  tts  a///"  No  wonder  that  his  vanity  was  inflamed 
by  so  genuine  a  compliment.  His  work  taken  for  Shake- 
speare's and  by  such  judges  !  After  this  it  is  to  be  feared 
that  not  many  antiquaries  are  able  to  withstand  the  seduc- 
tion of  an  antique  diction,  or  of  antique  writing,  material, 
and  other  delusive  elements. 

Again  the  amateurs  were  pressing  him  to  make  fresh 
searches.  His  indifference  was  impatiently  tolerated,  and 
he  was  almost  forced  to  manufacture  a  few  trifles  to  stay 
their  appetites.  He  discovered  "  the  witty  conundrum  of 
Shakespere  to  Maister  Cowley,"  a  bit  of  nonsensical  dog- 
gerel, in  which,  to  his  surprise,  the  admiring  commenta- 
tors discovered  much  point  and  significance,  though,  as  he 
confesses,  he  had  no  distinct  idea  in  his  head.  Growing 
bolder,  he  next  discovered  "a  letter  to  Anne  Hathaway," 
— and  as  he  was  completing  it,  it  occurred  to  him  that  a 
lock  of  hair  would  be  a  dramatic  inclosure.  He  bethought 
him  of  such  a  souvenir  given  him  by  an  old  flame.  The 
modern  thread  with  which  it  was  tied  up  was  a  difficulty ; 
but  his  artful  enthusiasm  was  prepared,  and  he  drew  a 
thread  out  of  the  tapestry  in  the  House  of  Lords,  which 
was  ancient  enough.  The  hair  was  unanimously  pronounced 
to  answer  to  the  traditions  of  the  Shakespearian  hair,  was 
reverentially  kissed,  and  portions  of  it  set  in  rings. 

All  this  time,  however,  he  had  a  presentiment  of  danger. 
Mr.  Albany  Wallis — who  was  Garrick's  solicitor,  and  a 
shrewd  intelligent  man — discovered  among  some  old  deeds, 


THE  IRELAND  FORGERIES.  283 

a  signature  of  John  Hemminge's,  Shakespeare's  lessee.  He 
sent  for  Ireland  and  showed  him  that  the  signature  did  not 
in  the  least  resemble  the  fictitious  one.  Here  was  an 
awkward  discovery.  The  young  man  felt  his  heart  sink, 
but  had  composure  enough  to  say  that  it  was  very  strange, 
but  he  thought  that  he  could  clear  the  matter  up.  As  he 
was  walking  home  he  devised  a  scheme:  then  sat  down, 
and  from  memory  imitated  the  signature  that  had  just  been 
shown  to  him  and  attached  it  to  a  receipt.  He  then  re- 
paired to  Mr.  Wallis  and  told  this  story :  He  had  been  to 
the  old  gentleman,  and  related  the  curious  discovery  that 
had  been  made,  when  the  latter  "shook  his  head  with 
meaning,  and  smilingly  said,  'Take  that  to  Mr.  Wallis.'  " 
How  could  Mr.  Wallis  know  that  there  were  two  Hem- 
minges,  "one  of  the  Globe,  the  other  of  the  Curtain 
Theatre"?  The  Globe  actor  was  distinguished  as  "tall 
John  Hemminge,"  the  Curtain  actor  as  "short  John." 
This  elaborate  falsehood  was  hurriedly  fabricated  during 
the  few  minutes  that  he  was  walking  home ;  and  it  shows 
that  his  mind  had  a  natural  bent  in  the  direction  of  deceit. 
The  explanation  was  accepted  and  the  danger,  for  the 
present,  escaped. 

Some  of  these  freaks  were  no  doubt  prompted  by  a  desire 
to  victimize  the  antiquarian  gulls,  whose  ignorance  was 
really  inviting  deception.  Thus  he  chanced  to  see  an  old 
Dutch  portrait  in  a  curiosity  shop.  He  put  a  pair  of  scales 
into  the  hand  and  added  W.  S.  in  the  corner.  He  had 
only  to  announce  that  it  came  from  the  old  gentleman's 
magazine,  and  the  antiquarians  recognized  it  as  the  im- 
mortal Bard  himself  " in  the  character  of  Shylock  !"  "It 
had  probably  been  hung  up  in  the  green-room,"  in  com- 
pliment to  "Maister  Shakespere!"  Other  "relics"  were 
produced  from  time  to  time,  and  the  "curious"  came  in 
such  crowds,  that  particular  days  in  the  week  were  an- 


284  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

nounced  by  advertisement  when  they  would  be  exhibited 
in  Norfolk  Street.  A  declaration  of  belief  in  the  authen- 
ticity of  the  papers  was  drawn  up  by  the  crafty  father, 
which  visitors  supposed  to  be  judges  were  invited  to  sign  : 
and  later,  to  such  a  declaration  were  found  attached  the 
names  of  Dr.  Parr,  Herbert  Cr&ft,  Duke  of  Somerset, 
Garter  King  at  Arms,  Boswell,  and  others.  Mr.  Boswell 
took  the  matter  up  with  his  usual  enthusiasm,  and,  kneel- 
ing down,  thanked  God  that  he  had  lived  to  see  that  day. 
Person,  however,  excused  himself  with  the  pleasant  remark 
that  he  detested  signing  articles  of  any  description,  espe- 
cially articles  of  faith. 

It  was  scarcely  wonderful  that,  with  such  encouragement, 
a  still  bolder  step  should  have  been  taken.  Hitherto  there 
had  been  much  credit,  a  good  deal  of  reputation,  but  no 
profit.  The  Irelands  were  little  more  than  dealers  in  lit- 
erary curiosities,  and  there  was  no  reason  why  the  Bard 
should  not  be  made  to  bring  pecuniary  advantages.  Sur- 
prise had  often  been  expressed  that  in  such  a  treasury  of 
old  papers  no  PLAY  had  been  discovered.  The  poet  must 
surely  have  left  behind  him,  in  company  with  the  other 
scraps,  some  rude  sketches  of  scenes,  acts — or  possibly  an 
entire  drama,  which  had  been  rejected  as  not  quite  up  to 
his  standard.  This  was  like  an  invitation,  and  soon  hints 
were  thrown  out  that  the  investigator  was  on  the  track. 
Presently  the  antiquarians  were  thrown  into  a  delirium  of 
joy  by  learning  that  a  tragedy  entitled  VORTIGERN  and 
ROWENA,  by  W.  Shakespere,  had  been  recovered. 

No  time  was  lost.  Offers  were  received  from  the  man- 
agers. One  from  Harris  of  Covent  Garden  was  declined, 
one  from  Sheridan  of  Drury  Lane  was  accepted.  That 
versatile  genius  had  his  suspicions,  and  was  staggered  by 
the  prosy  and  un-Shakespearian  character  of  many  of  the 
lines.  Indeed  he  was  said  to  have  declared  to  some  friends 


THE  IRELAND  FORGERIES.         285 

that  the  piece  might  no  doubt  have  been  Shakespeare's 
work,  but  that  he  must  have  been  drunk  when  he  wrote  it. 
Three  hundred  pounds  was  to  be  paid  for  the  treasure,  and 
the  profits  of  the  first  sixty  nights  of  performance  divided 
between  the  sponsors  and  the  manager.  Great  expense 
was  gone  to  for  scenery,  and  the  parts  allotted  to  Kemble 
and  other  important  performers. 

But  it  was  felt  that  this  was  going  too  far.  A  few  men 
of  real  critical  sagacity,  such  as  Malone  and  Steevens, 
were  persuaded  by  a  sort  of  instinct  that  such  "discov- 
eries" were  a  priori  impossible,  or  inconsistent  with  what 
their  own  labors  had  taught  them.  Reed,  Farmer,  Ritson, 
Percy,  and  Douglas,  the  Bishop  of  Salisbury  (who  had  al- 
ready exposed  another  imposture,  Lauder's)  denounced  the 
whole  as  a  monstrous  forgery.  These  names  carried  more 
weight  than  those  of  amateurs  like  Garter  King  at  Arms, 
the  impulsive  Boswell,  or  even  the  eccentric  Parr.  The 
specimens  furnished,  to  be  followed  by  others,  placed  the 
discoveries  in  fatally  convenient  shape  for  sober  investiga- 
tion and  critical  testing ;  and  Malone  flung  himself  on 
these  with  professional  ardor  and  merciless  severity.* 

An  ordinary  reader  would  see  that  this  was  but  a  rechauffe 
of  Portia's  speech.  And  indeed  it  was  upon  this  principle 
that  the  fabrication  had  proceeded,  working  in  Shake- 
sperian  phrases  and  allusions,  in  absolute  dearth  of  inspira- 
tion. But  Malone  showed  with  overwhelming  force  the 
blunders  into  which  the  writer  had  fallen.  The  letter 
was  addressed  to  "Anne  Hathirrewaye,"  whereas  the  old 
spelling  is  invariably  Hathaway.  There  was  no  "For" 

*He  took,  for  instance,  the  letter  to  Anne  Hathaway,  which  ran: — 
"No  rude  hande  hath  knottedde  itte.  Thye  Willys  alone  hathe  done 
the  worke.  Neytherre  the  gyldedde  bawble  tliatte  envyronnes  the  heade 
of  majestye.  noe  noire  honoures  most  weyghtye  wulde  give  me  halfe  the 
joye  as  didde  thysse  mye  lyttle  worke  forre  thee." 


286  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

or  "To"  preceding  the  name,  the  usual  form  of  super- 
scription; the  "gyldedde  Bawble,"  he  showed  could  not 
have  been  Shakespeare's  phrase — who  always  spoke  of  the 
"Crown,"  simply — while  his  loyalty  would  have  forbidden 
him  such  a  phrase.  These  objections,  and  many  more  he 
embodied  in  a  masterly  exposure.* 

Hte  labors  took  the  shape  of  a  "letter  to  the  Lord 
Charlemont,  in  which  it  is  proved  from  orthography,  phra- 
seology, dates  given,  or  deducible  by  inference,  and  dis- 
similitude of  handwriting,  that  not  a  single  paper  or  deed 
in  this  extraordinary  volume  was  written  or  executed  by  the 
person  to  whom  it  was  ascribed."  Edmund  Burke  paid 
the  work  the  odd  compliment  "  that  he  had  got  to  the 
seventy-third  page  before  he  went  to  sleep," — but  justly 
declared  that  in  it  "was  revived  the  spirit  of  that  sort  of 
criticism  by  which  false  pretense  and  imposture  are  de- 
tected," and  which  had  grown  so  rare  in  England. 

This  "inquiry"  appeared  at  an  awkward  moment  for  the 
fabricators — on  the  very  eve  of  the  performance.  It  was 
found  necessary  to  distribute  a  handbill  at  the  doors,  which 
ran : — 

"  VORTIGERN. 

"  A  malevolent  and  impudent  attack  on  the  Shakespeare  MSS. 
having  appeared  on  the  eve  of  representation  of  the  play  of  '  Vorti- 
gern,'  evidently  intended  to  injure  the  interest  of  the  proprietor  of  the 
MSS.,  Mr.  Ireland  feels  it  impossible,  within  the  short  space  of  time 
that  intervenes  between  the  publishing  and  the  representation,  to  pro- 
duce an  answer  to  the  most  illiberal  and  unfounded  assertions  in  Mr. 

*  Indeed,  it  is  hard  to  resist  a  smile  on  looking  at  these  attempts,  which 
suggest  the  conventional  old  English  with  which  historical  novelists  attempt 
to  reproduce  the  times  of  King  Hal  and  Queen  Bess.  An  inscription  said 
to  have  been  found  at  the  beginning  of  a  copy  of  "  King  Lear''  ran  thus : — 
•'  The  Tragedy  of  Kynge  Lear  isse  fromme  Masterre  Hollineshedde.  I  have 
inne  somme  lyttle  departedde  fromme  hymme,  butte  thatte  libbertye  wille 
notte  I  truste  be  blammedde  by  mye  gentle  readerres." 


THE   IRELAND  FORGERIES. 


287 


Malone's  enquiry.  He  is  therefore  induced  to  request  that  the  play 
of  '  Vortigern'  may  be  heard  with  that  candor  which  has  ever  dis- 
tinguished a  British  audience." 

This  of  course  tended  to  increase  the  excitement,  which 
about  the  doors  of  the  theatre  was  enormous :  opposition 
handbills  being  distributed,  describing  the  piece  as  "  a 
rank  forgery."  It  was  evident,  however,  that  serious  perils 
were  in  store  for  it,  both  before  and  behind  the  scenes. 
Kemble  was  in  one  of  those  grim  humors  which  are  favorite 
weaknesses  of  great  tragedians,  and  had  shown  a  marked 
hostility  from  the  beginning.  He  had,  as  it  were,  washed 
his  hands  of  the  business:  and  when  the  sponsor  (or  author) 
begged  that  he  would  use  his  judgment  in  preparing  the 
piece  for  the  stage,  the  reply  he  received  was  that  "it 
should  be  acted  faithfully  from  the  copy  sent  to  the 
theatre."  He  was  no  doubt  encouraged  by  the  success  of 
a  similar  fit  of  ill-humor  only  a  few  nights  before.  The 
parts,  it  was  said,  had  been  distributed  with  studious  effort 
to  make  the  piece  as  ineffective  as  possible.  Mrs.  Siddons 
had  finally  declined  the  heroine,  believing  the  whole  to  be 
"an  audacious  imposture." 

Inside,  the  house  presented  an  extraordinary  scene.  It 
was  crammed  to  the  roof,  while  conspicuous  in  a  centre 
box  was  the  Ireland  party.  Many  had  paid  box  prices, 
when  no  seats  were  to  be  obtained,  for  the  purpose  of  get- 
ting down  into  the  pit.  The  air  was  charged  with  the 
murmurs  of  contending  factions,  and  the  partisans  and 
concoctors  of  the  fraud  felt  uneasy  presentiments.  The 
performance  began.  The  young  fabricator  was  behind  the 
scenes,  nervous,  agitated,  but  received  kindly  encourage- 
ment from  the  good-natured  Jordan,  who  performed  in  the 
piece. 

With  occasional  signs  of  disapprobation,  all  went  fairly 
for  a  couple  of  acts.  But  the  opponents  were  only  reserv- 


288  THE  ROMANCE    OF    THE  STAGE. 

ing  their  powers.  The  absurdities  of  some  of  the  actors 
then  came  in  aid,  and  were  greeted  with  derision :  as  when 
Dignum,  a  pleasing  singer,  but  no  actor,  gave  out  in  a 
guttural  croak  an  invitation  to  the  trumpets,  "Let  them 
bellow  on!"  it  was  not  unnaturally  greeted  with  a  shout  of 
laughter ;  or  when  Mr.  Philimore,  a  comic  performer  with 
a  large  nose,  who  had  been  fitted  with  the  part  of  "  the 
Saxon  general,  Horsus,"  was  killed  in  due  course,  fresh 
amusement  was  produced  by  his  dying  agonies.  As  the 
drop-scene  descended,  the  heavy  roller  rested  on  his  chest, 
and  it  was  some  time  before  he  could  be  extricated,  his 
groans  reaching  the  audience,  and  convulsing  the  house 
with  merriment.  But  Kemble  contributed  most  to  the 
general  "damnation":  all  through  he  had  preserved  a 
stolid  and  conscientious  bearing,  not  making  the  least  ex- 
ertion, but  delivering  the  lines  in  a  funereal  fashion.  As 
he  spoke  various  Shakespearian  passages,  the  audience, 
with  unusual  intelligence,  would  call  out,  "Henry  IV.," 
"Othello,"  or  whatever  play  the  line  was  stolen  from.* 
But  at  last  it  went  beyond  endurance,  and  Kemble  gave 
the  signal  for  the  coup  de  grace  by  his  delivering  of  some 
lines  on  death  : — 

'  O  thou  that  dost  ope-wide  thy  hideous  jaws, 
And  with  rude  laughter  and  fantastic  tricks 
Thou  clappest  thy  rattling  finders  to  thy  side — 
And  when  this  solemn  mockery  is  o'er — " 

Here  one  universal  shout  pointed  the  application  of  the 
speech,  and  a  chorus  of  groans,  catcalls,  and  the  usual  hur- 
ricane of  theatrical  disapprobation  sealed  the  fate  of  the 

*  The  mock  stuff  was,  however,  ingeniously  put  together,  as  in  the  pas- 
sages : — 

"  Give  me  a  sword ! 

I  have  so  clogg'd  and  badged  this  with  blood 
And  slippery  gore,  that  it  doth  mock  my  grasp." 


THE  IRELAND  FORGERIES.  289 

play.     As  soon  as  there  was  a  lull,  Kemble,  with  a  cruel 
iteration,  slowly  and  lugubriously  repeated  the  line — 

"  And  when  this  solemn  mockery  is  o'er," 

which  provoked  a  fresh  howl,  and  the  whole  closed  in 
confusion. 

The  play  was  of  course  never  acted  again,  though  the 
fabricator  was  paid  on  the  following  morning.  Notwith- 
standing this  rude  shock,  the  impostors  proceeded  in  their 
task  with  even  more  confidence.  The  book  had  appeared, 
a  magnificent  volume,  full  of  illustrations  and  facsimiles, 
and  sold  at  an  enormous  price.  Even  now  it  excites  won- 
der, from  the  ingenuity  and  elaborateness  with  which  the 
deception  is  carried  out.  Had  it  appeared  before  the  play, 
it  would  have  brought  in  a  splendid  sum  to  the  concocters. 
But  more  than  suspicion  had  been  aroused.  A  loud  clamor 
arose  that  the  name  of  the  mysterious  old  gentleman,  the 
owner  of  the  treasures,  should  be  given  up.  A  committee 
was  appointed  to  examine  the  question,  which  suggested 
that  two  of  their  number  should  be  selected  who  were  to 
be  informed  of  the  gentleman's  name,  and  sworn  to  secrecy. 
In  an  agony  of  doubt,  the  wretched  young  fellow  knew  not 
what  course  to  take,  and  at  last  bethought  him  of  throwing 
himself  on  the  generosity  of  Mr.  Albany  Wallis,  the  solici- 
tor, and  confessing  the  whole  story  to  him.  He  was  natu- 
rally amazed  at  the  revelation.  Ireland  asked  him  what 
was  to  be  done.  He  good-naturedly  promised  to  keep 
silence,  and  would  give  out  that  tl.e  gentleman  did  not 
consider  it  safe  to  trust  his  secret  to  the  public.  Still  this 
was  only  staving  the  matter  off.  At  last,  pressed  and  har- 
assed on  all  sides,  the  youth  fled  from  home,  and  swore  an 
affidavit  before  a  magistrate,  clearing  his  father,  who  had 
been  attacked  by  Malone ;  then,  after  an  absence  returned 
to  his  father  to  confess  the  whole.  The  father,  he  says, 


290  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

was  inexpressibly  astonished,  and  could  not  believe  the 
story;  then,  affected  to  cast  him  off  altogether  as  an  im- 
postor. 

Such  is  the  story  told  by  the  young  man  himself  in  his 
curious  "confessions."  It  will  be  seen  that  the  object 
was  to  enlist  sympathy,  as  in  the  case  of  Chatterton,  for  a 
youth  lamentably  led  astray,  but  with  a  genius  and  clever- 
ness that  deserved  indulgence. 

But  Steevens  and  others  were  not  to  be  thus  imposed 
upon.  It  was  believed  that  the  father,  an  old  hand  at  such 
fabrications,  had  been  the  chief  contriver,  and  that  the 
house  in  Northumberland  Street  was  no  more  than  an  elab- 
orate workshop,  in  which  the  whole  family  labored.  The 
quarrel  between  the  father  and  son,  was  supposed  to  have 
been  got  up  with  a  view  "of  whitewashing  the  father," 
whose  business  it  would  have  fatally  destroyed.* 

A  volume  which  he  had  issued,  containing  designs  by 
Hogarth,  long  considered  to  be  spurious,  was  recollected. 
He  was  also  a  collector  of  books  belonging  to  the  Shake- 
spearian era,  which  he  decorated  with  fabricated  inscrip- 
tions on  the  fly-leaves  and  margins,  and  sold  as  rarities. 
This  seemed  almost  conclusive,  or  at  least  more  probable 
than  that  a  lad  of  sixteen  should  have  shown  such  preco- 
cious ability.  A  daughter  was  said  to  have  labored  at  the 
forged  autographs.  Finally,  as  Ireland  had  showed  deceit 
in  the  imposition,  his  elaborate  "confessions"  might  be 
equally  open  to  the  charge  of  being  untruthful. 

The  rest  of  the  story  is  uninteresting.  He  is  said  to 
have  become  a  sort  of  hack  writer,  and  died,  in  the  year 
1835,  in  miserable  circumstances. 

*  Steevens  to  Bishop  Percy.  See  also  note  in  "  Willis'  Current  Notes," 
from  a  gentleman  well  acquainted  with  the  family. 


MRS.  ROBINSON.  391 


CHAPTER    X. 

MRS.  ROBINSON.* 

CLOSE  to  the  Bristol  cathedral  used  to  stand  a  mansion, 
half  a  ruin,  half  a  modern  restoration,  in  which  the  well- 
known  heroine  Mary  Darby,  or  Robinson,  or  "Perdita," 
was  born.  "  In  this  awe-inspiring  habitation,"  she  says  in 
her  high-flown  memoirs,  "  which  I  shall  henceforth  de- 
nominate the  Minster-house,  during  a  tempestuous  night, 
on  the  twenty-seventh  of  November,  1758,  I  first  opened 
my  eyes  to  this  world  of  duplicity  and  sorrow.  I  have 
often  heard  my  mother  say  that  a  more  stormy  hour  she 
never  remembered.  The  wind  whistled  round  the  dark 
pinnacles  of  the  minster  tower,  and  the  rain  beat  in  tor- 
rents against  the  casements  of  her  chamber.  Through  life 
the  tempest  has  followed  my  footsteps,  and  I  have  in  vain 
looked  for  a  short  interval  of  repose  from  the  perseverance 
of  sorrow." 

From  this  introduction,  a  fair  idea  may  be  gathered  of 
the  melodramatic  nature  of  the  fair  creature  who  is  about 
to  relate  her  adventures.  Beautiful,  interesting,  romantic, 
persecuted  by  those  who  should  have  protected  her,  pur- 
sued by  wicked  men,  and  further,  abandoned  by  the  faith- 
less lover  who  had  led  her  astray,  her  story  reads  like  some 
agonizing  heroine's  in  the  old  romances.  And  though  the 
life  of  one  so  frail  as  well  as  so  fair,  is  to  be  sternly  judged 
according  to  the  conventional  law  of  society,  it  will  be 
seen  that  some  allowance  must  be  made  for  her  position. 
Her  family  was  of  Irish  origin,  and  formerly  bore  the  name 

*  Bom  1758,  died  1800. 


29 2  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

of  Macdermott,  which  was  changed  to  that  of  Darby ;  her 
father,  "a  man  of  strong  mind,  high  spirit,  and  great  per- 
sonal intrepidity,"  was  half  an  American,  and  all  his  life 
addicted  to  speculations  and  pleasure.  When  his  little 
girl  Mary  was  at  a  school  kept  by  the  Misses  More,  sisters 
of  the  famous  Hannah,  he  conceived  avast  Quixotic  scheme 
of  founding  a  great  fishing  settlement  on  the  Labrador,  and 
set  off  for  America  to  arrange  for  carrying  it  out.  His  wife 
and  family  were  left  behind  in  England.  After  three  years' 
absence  he  returned,  nearly  all  his  fortune  having  been 
swallowed  up  through  the  Indians  having  destroyed  the 
settlement.  He  then  deserted  his  family,  his  wife  having 
been  compelled  to  open  a  small  school,  so  as  to  earn  means 
for  the  support  of  herself  and  her  children.  On  this  in- 
telligence reaching  him,  he  characteristically  became  angry 
at  what  he  considered  was  a  degradation  to  his  name,  and 
insisted  on  the  school  being  broken  up. 

His  daughter  Mary,  then  about  fourteen  or  fifteen  years 
old,  and  showing  great  signs  of  beauty  and  intelligence, 
had  been  taking  some  lessons  in  dancing  from  a  master 
who  was  connected  with  Covent  Garden  Theatre.  This 
Professor  was  so  struck  with  her  intelligence  that  he  spoke 
of  her  to  one  of  the  actors.  Mr.  Garrick,  who  was  then 
retiring  from  the  stage,  was  later  induced  to  allow  her  to 
exhibit  before  him,  and  was  so  delighted  that  he  proposed 
that  she  should  appear  with  him.  But  these  dazzling  plans 
were  interrupted  by  a  more  important  matter. 

A  gentleman  who  constantly  appeared  at  the  opposite 
window,  and  showed  signs  of  his  admiration,  attracted  her. 
"  One  evening,  a  party  of  six  was  proposed  for  the  follow- 
ing Sunday ;  with  much  persuasion  my  mother  consented 
to  go,  and  to  allow  that  I  should  also  attend  her.  Green- 
wich was  the  place  fixed  on  for  the  dinner ;  and  we  pre- 
pared for  the  day  of  recreation.  It  was  then  the  fashion 


JUJfS.  ROBINSON.  293 

to  wear  silks.  I  remember  that  I  wore  a  nightgown  of 
pale  blue  lustring,  with  a  chip  hat,  trimmed  with  ribbands 
of  the  same  color.  Never  was  I  dressed  so  perfectly  to 
my  own  satisfaction :  I  anticipated  a  day  of  admiration  ; 
Heaven  can  bear  witness  that,  to  me,  it  was  a  day  of  fatal 
victory ! 

"  On  our  stopping  at  the  Star  and  Garter,  at  Greenwich, 
the  person  who  came  to  hand  me  from  the  carriage  was  our 
opposite  neighbor  in  Southampton  Buildings.  I  was  con- 
fused ;  but  my  mother  was  indignant !  Mr.  Wayman  pre- 
sented his  young  friend — that  friend  who  was  ordained  to 

be  MY  HUSBAND. 

"  Our  party  dined ;  and  early  in  the  evening  we  returned 
to  London.  Mr.  Robinson  remained  at  Greenwich  for  the 
benefit  of  the  air,  being  recently  recovered  from  a  fit  of 
sickness.  During  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  Mr.  Way- 
man expatiated  on  the  many  good  qualities  of  his  friend 
Mr.  Robinson,  spoke  of  his  future  expectations  from  a  rich 
old  uncle,  of  his  probable  advancement  in  his  profession, 
and,  more  than  all,  of  his  enthusiastic  admiration  of  me. 

•'  A  few  days  after,  Mr.  Robinson  paid  my  mother  a  visit. 
We  had  now  removed  to  Villiers  Street.  York  Buildings. 
My  mother's  fondness  for  books  of  a  moral  and  religious 
character  was  not  lost  upon  my  new  lover ;  and  elegantly 
bound  editions  of  Hervey's  Meditations,  with  some  others 
of  a  similar  description,  were  presented,  as  small  tokens  of 
admiration  and  respect.  My  mother  was  beguiled  by  these 
little  interesting  attentions,  and  soon  began  to  feel  a  strong 
predilection  in  favor  of  Mr.  Robinson." 

During  the  illness  that  followed,  Mr.  Robinson  was  so 
devoted  that  a  consent  was  at  last  extorted  and  the  mar- 
riage took  place : — the  bride  being  so  youthful  that  only 
three  months  before  she  had  given  up  dressing  her  dolls. 
To  her  great  surprise  Mr.  Robinson  insisted  that  the  matter 
25* 


294 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


should  be  kept  secret,  owing  to  family  reasons,  and  to  a 
fear  of  displeasing  a  firm  of  attorneys  to  whom  he  was 
articled.  After  a  short  time  she  began  to  have  suspicions, 
and  it  was  insisted  that  the  bride  should  be  taken  to 
see  the  important  uncle  in  Wales,  to  whom  her  husband 
gave  out  that  he  was  heir — but  whose  illegitimate  son  he  in 
reality  was ;  unable  to  make  further  excuses,  he  consented, 
and  both  set  off  for  Wales,  and  arrived  at  Mr.  Harris's 
house. 

"  Mr.  Harris  came  out  to  receive  me.  I  wore  a  dark 
claret-colored  riding-habit,  with  a  white  beaver  hat  and 
feathers.  He  embraced  me  with  excessive  cordiality,  while 
Miss  Robinson,  my  husband's  sister,  with  cold  formality 
led  me  into  the  house.  I  never  shall  forget  her  looks  or 
her  manner.  Had  her  brother  presented  the  most  abject 
being  to  her,  she  could  not  have  taken  my  hand  with  a 
more  frigid  demeanor.  Miss  Robinson,  though  not  more 
than  twenty  years  of  age,  was  Gothic  in  her  appearance, 
and  stiff  in  her  deportment ;  she  was  of  low  stature,  and 
clumsy,  with  a  countenance  peculiarly  formed  for  the  ex- 
pression of  sarcastic  vulgarity — a  short  snub  nose,  turned 
up  at  the  point,  a  head  thrown  back  with  an  air  of  hauteur, 
a  gaudy-colored  chintz  gown,  a  thrice-bordered  cap,  with 
a  profusion  of  ribbands,  and  a  countenance  somewhat  more 
ruddy  than  was  consistent  with  evea  pure  health,  presented 
the  personage  whom  I  was  to  know  as  my  future  companion 
and  kinswoman  ! 

"Mr.  Harris  looked  like  a  venerable  Hawthorn;  a 
brown  fustian  coat,  a  scarlet  waistcoat  edged  with  narrow 
gold,  a  pair  of  woollen  splatter-dashes,  and  a  gold -laced 
hat,  formed  the  dress  he  generally  wore.  He  always  rode 
a  small  Welsh  pony ;  and  was  seldom  in  the  house,  except- 
ing at  meal-time,  from  sunrise  to  the  close  of  evening. 

"There  was  yet  another  personage  in  the  domestic  es- 


MRS.  ROBINSON.  295 

tablishment,  who  was  bj  Mr.  Harris  regarded  as  of  no  small 
importance:  this  was  a  venerable  housekeeper,  of  the  name 
of  Mary  Edwards.  Mrs.  Molly  was  the  female  Mentor  of 
the  family ;  she  dined  at  the  table  with  Mr.  Harris ;  she 
was  the  governess  of  the  domestic  department:  and  a 
more  overbearing,  vindictive  spirit  never  inhabited  the 
heart  of  mortal,  than  that  which  pervaded  the  soul  of  the 
ill-natured  Mrs.  Molly. 

"It  may  easily  be  conjectured  that  my  time  passed 
heavily  in  this  uninteresting  circle.  I  was  condemned 
either  to  drink  ale  with  '  the  Squire,'  for  Mr.  Harris  was 
only  spoken  of  by  that  title,  or  to  visit  the  Methodist  seal 
seminary  which  Lady  Huntingdon  had  established  at  Tre- 
vecca,  another  mansion-house  on  the  estate  of  Mr.  Harris. 
Miss  Robinson  was  of  this  sect ;  and  though  Mr.  Harris 
was  not  a  disciple  of  the  Huntingdonian  School,  he  was  a 
constant  church  visitor  on  every  Sunday.  His  zeal  was 
indefatigable;  and  he  would  frequently  fine  the  rustics 
(for  be  was  a  justice  of  the  peace,  and  had  been  sheriff  of 
the  county)  when  he  heard  them  swear,  though  every  third 
sentence  he  uttered  was  attended  by  an  oath  that  made  his 
bearers  shudder. 

"  I  soon  became  a  considerable  favorite  with  the  Squire; 
but  I  did  not  find  any  yielding  qualities  about  the  hearts 
of  Miss  Betsy  or  Mrs.  Molly.  They  observed  me  with 
jealous  eyes ;  they  considered  me  as  an  interloper,  whose 
manner  attracted  Mr.  Harris's  esteem,  and  who  was  likely 
to  diminish  their  divided  influence  in  the  family.  I  found 
them  daily  growing  weary  of  my  society  ;  I  perceived  their 
sidelong  glances  when  I  was  complimented  by  the  visiting 
neighbors  on  my  good  looks,  or  taste  in  the  choice  of  my 
dresses.  Miss  Robinson  rode  on  horseback  in  a  camlet 
safe-guard,  with  a  high-crowned  bonnet.  I  wore  a  fash- 
ionable habit,  and  looked  like  something  human.  Envy 
25* 


296  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

at  length  assumed  the  form  of  insolence,  and  I  was  taunted 
perpetually  on  the  folly  of  appearing  like  a  woman  of  for- 
tune; that  a  lawyer's  wife  had  no  right  to  dress  like  a 
duchess  ;  and  that,  though  I  might  be  very  accomplished, 
a  good  housewife  had  no  occasion  for  harpsichords  and 
books ;  they  belonged  to  women  who  brought  wherewithal 
to  support  them.  Such  was  the  language  of  vulgar  illiberal 
natures !  yet  for  three  weeks  I  endured  it  patiently. 

"  Knowing  that  Mr.  Harris  was  disposed  to  think  favor- 
ably of  me — that  he  even  declared  he  should  '  have  liked 
me  for  his  wife,  had  I  not  married  Tom,1  though  he  was 
then  between  sixty  and  seventy  years  of  age,  I  thought  it 
most  prudent  to  depart,  lest  through  the  machinations  of 
Miss  Betsy  and  Mrs.  Molly  I  should  lose  the  share  I  had 
gained  in  his  affections.  My  mother  was  still  at  Bristol ; 
and  the  morning  of  our  departure  being  arrived,  to  my 
infinite  astonishment,  Mr.  Harris  proposed  accompanying 
us  thither.  It  was  in  vain  that  Molly  and  Miss  interfered 
to  prevent  him ;  he  swore  that  he  would  see  me  safe  across 
the  Channel,  whatever  might  be  the  consequence  of  his 
journey.  We  set  out  together. 

"  After  passing  many  days  at  Bristol,  Mr.  Harris  returned 
to  Wales,  and  our  party  set  out  for  London.  Mr.  Robin- 
son's mind  was  easy,  and  his  hopes  were  confirmed  by  the 
kindness  of  his  uncle :  he  now  considered  himself  as  the 
most  happy  of  mortals.  We  removed  from  Great  Queen 
Street,  to  a  house,  No.  13,  in  Hatton  Garden,  which  had 
been  recently  built.  Mr.  Robinson  hired  it,  and  furnished 
it  with  peculiar  elegance.  I  frequently  inquired  into  the 
extent  of  his  finances,  and  he  as  often  assured  me  that  they 
were  in  every  respect  competent  to  his  expenses.  In  ad- 
dition to  our  domestic  establishment,  Mr.  Robinson  pur- 
chased a  handsome  phaeton,  with  saddle  horses  for  his  own 
use  ;  and  I  now  made  my  debut,  though  scarcely  emerged 


MRS.  KOBINSOW. 


297 


beyond  the  boundaries  of  childhood,  in  the  broad  hemis- 
phere of  fashionable  folly. 

"  A  new  face,  a  young  person  dressed  with  peculiar  but 
simple  elegance,  was  sure  to  attract  attention  at  places  of 
public  entertainment.  The  first  time  I  went  to  Ranelagh 
my  habit  was  so  singularly  plain  and  quaker-like,  that  all 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  me.  I  wore  a  gown  of  light  brown 
lustring  with  close  round  cuffs  (it  was  then  the  fashion  to 
wear  long  ruffles) ;  my  hair  was  without  powder,  and  my 
head  adorned  with  a  plain  round  cap  and  a  white  chip  hat, 
without  any  ornaments  whatever. 

"The  second  place  of  polite  entertainment,  to  which 
Mr.  Robinson  accompanied  me,  was  the  Pantheon  Concert, 
then  the  most  fashionable  assemblage  of  the  gay  and  the 
distinguished.  At  this  place  it  was  customary  to  appear 
much  dressed  ;  large  hoops  and  high  feathers  were  univer- 
sally worn. 

"  As  soon  as  I  entered  the  Pantheon  Rotunda,  1  never 
shall  forget  the  impression  which  my  mind  received :  the 
splendor  of  the  scene,  the  dome  illuminated  with  varie- 
gated lamps,  the  music,  and  the  beauty  of  the  women, 
seemed  to  present  a  circle  of  enchantment.  I  recollect 
that  the  most  lovely  of  fair  forms  met  my  eyes  in  that  of 
Lady  Almeria  Carpenter.  The  countenance  which  most 
pleased  me  was  that  of  the  late  Mrs.  Baddeley.  The  first 
Countess  of  Tyrconnel  also  appeared  with  considerable 
iclat.  But  the  buzz  of  the  room,  the  unceasing  murmur 
of  admiration,  attended  the  Marchioness  of  Townshend. 
I  took  my  seat  on  a  sofa  nearly  opposite  to  that  on  which 
she  was  sitting,  and  I  observed  two  persons,  evidently  men 
of  fashion,  speaking  to  her;  till  one  of  them,  looking 
towards  me,  with  an  audible  voice  inquired  of  the  other 
'Who  is  she?' 

"Their  fixed  stare  disconcerted  me.  I  rose,  and  lean- 
is* 


298  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

ing  on  my  husband's  arm,  again  mingled  in  the  brilliant 
circle.  The  inquirers  followed  us,  stopping  several  friends, 
as  we  walked  round  the  circle,  and  repeatedly  demanding 
of  them,  '  Who  is  that  young  lady  in  the  pink  dress 
trimmed  with  sable?'  My  manner  and  confusion  plainly 
evinced  that  I  was  not  accustomed  to  the  gaze  of  imperti- 
nent high  breeding.  I  felt  uneasy,  and  proposed  returning 
home,  when  I  perceived  that  our  two  followers  were  joined 
by  a  third,  who,  on  looking  at  me,  said,  '  I  think  I  know 
her.'  It  was  the  late  Earl  of  Northington. 

"  We  had  now  to  pass  the  group  in  order  to  quit  the 
rotunda.  Lord  Northington,  leaving  his  companions, 
approached  me.  'Miss  Darby,  or  I  am  mistaken,' said 
he,  with  a  bow  of  marked  civility.  I  replied  that  my 
name  was  now  changed  to  that  of  Robinson  :  and,  to  pre- 
vent any  awkward  embarrassment,  presented  my  husband, 
on  whose  arm  I  was  still  leaning.  Lord  Northington  con- 
tinued to  walk  round  the  Pantheon  with  us,  made  many 
inquiries  after  my  father,  complimented  me  on  the  im- 
provement of  my  person,  and  hoped  that  he  should  be 
permitted  to  pay  his  respects  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robinson. 

"  We  now  entered  the  tea-room :  there  was  not  a  seat 
vacant :  I  was  considerably  fatigued,  and  somewhat  faint 
with  the  heat  of  the  rotunda.  I  quitted  the  tea-room,  and 
seated  myself  on  a  sofa  near  the  door.  In  a  few  minutes 
Lord  Northington  brought  me  a  cup  of  tea,  for  Mr.  Robin- 
son did  not  like  to  leave  me  alone ;  and  at  the  same  time 
presented  his  two  inquisitive  friends,  Lord  Lyttelton  and 
Captain  Ayscough. 

"I  now  proposed  departing.  Mr.  Robinson  accom- 
panied me  to  the  vestibule ;  and  while  he  was  seeking  the 
carriage  Lord  Lyttelton  offered  his  services.  I  had  never 
till  that  evening  heard  his  name ;  but  there  was  an  easy 
effrontery  in  his  address  that  completely  disgusted  me, 


299 

while  his  determined  gaze  distressed  and  embarrassed  me  ; 
and  I  felt  inexpressible  satisfaction  when  Mr.  Robinson 
returned  to  tell  me  that  the  carriage  was  ready.  On 
the  following  morning  Lords  Northington,  Lyttelton,  and 
Colonel  Ayscough  made  their  visits  of  ceremony.  Mr. 
Robinson  was  not  at  home,  but  I  received  them,  though 
not  without  some  embarrassment.  I  was  yet  a  child,  and 
wholly  unacquainted  with  the  manners  of  the  world.  Yet, 
young  as  I  was,  I  became  the  traveler  of  its  mazy  and  peril- 
ous paths;  at  an  age  when  girls  are  generally  at  school,  or 
indeed  scarcely  emancipated  from  the  nursery,  I  was  pre- 
sented in  society  as  a  wife — and  very  nearly  as  a  mother. 
Lord  Lyttelton  who  was  perhaps  the  most  accomplished 
libertine  that  any  age  or  country  has  produced,  with  con- 
siderable artifice  inquired  after  Mr.  Robinson,  professed 
his  earnest  desire  to  cultivate  his  acquaintance,  and  on  the 
following  day  sent  him  a  card  of  invitation.  Fortunately 
for  me,  Lord  Lyttelton  was  uniformly  my  aversion.  His 
manners  were  overbearingly  insolent,  his  language  licen- 
tious, and  his  person  slovenly  even  to  a  degree  that  was 
disgusting.  Mr.  Robinson  was  in  every  respect  the  very 
reverse  of  his  companion  :  he  was  unassuming,  neat  and 
delicate  in  his  conversation.  I  had  not  a  wish  to  descend 
from  the  propriety  of  wedded  life ;  and  I  abhorred,  de- 
cidedly abhorred,  the  acquaintance  with  Lord  Lyttelton. 

"  In  the  course  of  a  few  days  his  Lordship  presented  me 
the  works  of  Miss  Aikin,  now  Mrs.  Barbauld  :  I  read  them 
with  rapture:  I  thought  them  the  most  beautiful  poems 
I  had  ever  seen ;  and  considered  the  woman  who  could 
invent  such  poetry,  as  the  most  to  be  envied  of  human 
creatures.  Lord  Lyttelton  had  some  taste  for  poetical 
compositions,  and  wrote  verses  with  considerable  facility. 

"  On  the  following  Monday,  I  again  visited  the  Pantheon. 
My  dress  was  then  white  and  silver.  Again  I  was  followed 


3oo  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

with  attention.  Lord  Lyttelton  was  my  cavaliere  servente 
that  evening;  though,  as  usual,  his  chief  attention  was 
paid  to  Mr.  Robinson.  During  the  concert,  he  presented 
the  Count  de  Belgioso,  the  Imperial  Ambassador,  one  of 
the  most  accomplished  foreigners  I  ever  remember  to  have 
met.  Lord  Valentia  was  also  introduced  ;  but,  as  his  Lord- 
ship had  recently  made  some  eclat  by  his  attentions  to  the 
celebrated  Mrs.  Elliot,  I  rather  avoided  than  wished  to 
cultivate  his  acquaintance. 

"  Mr.  Robinson's  intercourse  with  the  world  was  now 
rapidly  augmenting.  Every  day  was  productive  of  some 
new  association.  Lord  Lyttelton  presented  many  of  his 
friends:  among  others  Captain  O' Byrne,  and  Mr.  William 
Brereton  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  In  the  course  of  a  short 
time  we  also  became  acquainted  with  Sir  Francis  Molyneux, 
Mr.  Alderman  Sayer,  and  the  late  unfortunate  George 
Robert  Fitzgerald.  Lord  Northington  was  also  a  con- 
stant visitor,  and  frequently  rallied  me  on  what  he  thought 
my  striking  likeness  to  his  family. 

"  I  soon  discovered  that  his  intercourse  with  Lord  Lyttel- 
ton produced  a  very  considerable  change  in  Mr.  Robinson's 
domestic  deportment.  They  were  constantly  together,  and 
the  neglect  which  I  experienced  began  to  alarm  me.  I 
dedicated  all  my  leisure  hours  to  poetry  :  I  wrote  verses  of 
all  sorts ;  and  Mr.  Robinson  having  mentioned  that  I  had 
purposed  appearing  on  the  stage  previous  to  my  marriage, 
in  the  character  of  Cordelia,  Lord  Lyttelton  facetiously 
christened  me  the  Poetess  Corry. 

"  It  was  with  extreme  regret,  and  frequently  with  un- 
controllable indignation,  that  I  endured  the  neglect  of  my 
husband  and  the  tauntings  of  the  profligate  Lyttelton — 
'The  child,'  for  so  he  generally  called  me,  was  deserted 
for  the  society  of  the  most  libertine  men  and  the  most 
abandoned  women.  Mr.  Robinson  became  not  only  care- 


3oi 

less  of  his  wife,  but  of  his  pecuniary  concerns ;  while  I  was 
kept  in  total  ignorance  as  to  the  resources  which  supplied 
his  increasing  expenses. 

"Among  the  most  dangerous  of  my  husband's  associates 
was  George  Robert  Fitzgerald.  His  manners  towards 
women  were  interesting  and  attentive:  he  perceived  the 
neglect  with  which  I  was  treated  by  Mr.  Robinson,  and  the 
pernicious  influence  which  Lord  Lyttelton  had  acquired 
over  his  mind  :  he  professed  to  feel  the  warmest  interest  in 
my  welfare,  lamented  the  destiny  which  had  befallen  me, 
in  being  wedded  to  a  man  incapable  of  estimating  my 
value,  and  at  last  confessed  himself  my  most  ardent  and 
devoted  admirer.  I  shuddered  at  the  declaration,  for 
amidst  all  the  allurements  of  splendid  folly,  my  mind,  the 
purity  of  my  virtue,  was  still  uncontaminated. 

"  I  repulsed  the  dangerous  advances  of  this  accomplished 
person  ;  but  I  did  not  the  less  feel  the  humiliation  to  which 
a  husband's  indifference  had  exposed  me.  God  can  bear 
witness  to  the  purity  of  my  soul ;  even  surrounded  by 
temptations,  and  mortified  by  neglect.  Whenever  I  ven- 
tured to  inquire  into  pecuniary  resources,  Mr.  Robinson 
silenced  me  by  saying  he  was  independent :  added  to  this 
assurance,  Lord  Lyttelton  repeatedly  promised  that,  through 
his  courtly  interest,  he  would  very  shortly  obtain  for  my 
husband  some  honorable  and  lucrative  situation. 

"I  confess  that  I  reposed  but  little  confidence  in  the 
promises  of  such  a  man,  though  my  husband  believed  them 
inviolable.  Frequent  parties  were  made  at  his  Lordship's 
house  in  Hill  Street,  and  many  invitations  pressed  for  a 
visit  to  his  seat  at  Hagley.  These  I  peremptorily  re- 
fused ;  till  the  noble  hypocrite  became  convinced  of  my 
aversion,  and  adopted  a  new  mode  of  pursuing  his  machina- 
tions. 

"  One  forenoon  Lord  Lyttelton  called  in  Hatton  Garden, 
26 


302  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

as  was  almost  his  daily  custom ;  and,  on  finding  that  Mr. 
Robinson  was  not  at  home,  requested  to  speak  with  me  on 
business  of  importance.  I  found  him  seemingly  much  dis- 
tressed. He  informed  me  that  he  had  a  secret  to  com- 
municate of  considerable  moment  both  to  my  interest  and 
happiness.  I  started :  '  Nothing,  I  trust  in  heaven,  has 
befallen  my  husband  !'  said  I,  with  a  voice  scarcely  articu- 
late. Lord  Lyttelton  hesitated.  '  How  little  does  that 
husband  deserve  the  solicitude  of  such  a  wife!'  said  he; 
'but,'  continued  his  Lordship,  '  I  fear  that  I  have  in  some 
degree  aided  in  alienating  his  conjugal  affections.  I  could 
not  bear  to  see  such  youth,  such  merit,  so  sacrificed.' 
'Speak  briefly,  my  Lord,'  said  I.  'Then,'  replied  Lord 
Lyttelton,  '  I  must  inform  you  that  your  husband  is  the 
most  false  and  undeserving  of  that  name  !'  .  .  . 

"  '  I  do  not  believe  it,'  said  I,  indignantly.  'Then  you 
shall  be  convinced,'  answered  his  Lordship — 'but  remem- 
ber, if  you  betray  your  true  and  zealous  friend,  I  must 
fight  your  husband ;  for  he  never  will  forgive  my  having 
discovered  his  infidelity.' 

"'It  cannot  be  true,'  said  I.  'You  have  been  misin- 
formed.' 

"'Hear  me,'  said  he.  'You  cannot  be  a  stranger  to 
my  motives  for  thus  cultivating  the  friendship  of  your 
husband  :  my  fortune  is  at  your  disposal.  Robinson  is  a 
ruined  man ;  his  debts  are  considerable,  and  nothing  but 
destruction  can  await  you.  Leave  him.  Command  my 
powers  to  serve  you.' 

'  I  would  hear  no  more — my  hours  were  all  dedicated  to 
sorrow  ;  for  I  now  heard  that  my  husband  even  at  the 
period  of  his  marriage,  had  an  attachment  which  he  had 
not  broken  ;  and  that  his  infidelities  were  as  public  as  the 
ruin  of  his  finances  was  inevitable.  I  remonstrated — I 
was  almost  frantic.  My  distress  was  useless ;  my  wishes  to 


MJfS.  XOBIXSOX. 


3°3 


retrench  our  expenses  were  ineffectual.  Lord  Lyttelton 
now  rested  his  only  hope  in  the  certainty  of  my  husband's 
ruin.  He  therefore  took  every  step  and  embraced  every 
opportunity  to  involve  him  more  deeply  in  calamity. 
Parties  were  made  to  Richmond  and  Salthill,  to  Ascot 
Heath  and  Epsom  races;  in  all  of  which  Mr.  Robinson 
bore  his  share  of  expense,  with  the  addition  of  post-horses. 
Whenever  he  seemed  to  shrink  from  his  augmenting  in- 
discretion, Lord  Lyttelton  assured  him  that,  through  his 
interest,  an  appointment  of  honorable  and  pecuniary  im- 
portance should  be  obtained:  though  I  embraced  every 
opportunity  to  assure  his  Lordship  that  no  consideration 
upon  earth  should  ever  make  me  the  victim  of  his  artifice. 

"Mr.  Fitzgerald  still  paid  me  unremitting  attention. 
His  manners  towards  women  were  beautifully  interesting. 
He  frequently  cautioned  me  against  the  libertine  Lyttelton, 
and  as  frequently  lamented  the  misguided  confidence  which 
Mr.  Robinson  reposed  in  him 

"  About  this  time  a  party  was  one  evening  made  to  Vaux- 
halL  Mr.  Fitzgerald  was  the  person  who  proposed  it,  and 
it  consisted  of  six  or  eight  persons.  The  night  was  warm, 
and  the  gardens  crowded ;  we  supped  in  the  circle  which 
has  the  statue  of  Handel  in  its  centre.  The  hour  growing 
late,  or  rather  early  in  the  morning,  our  company  dispersed, 
and  no  one  remained  excepting  Mr.  Robinson,  Mr.  Fitz- 
gerald, and  myself.  Suddenly  a  noise  was  heard  near  the 
orchestra ;  a  crowd  had  assembled,  and  two  gentlemen  were 
quarreling  furiously.  Mr.  R.  and  Fitzgerald  ran  out  of 
the  box.  I  rose  to  follow  them,  but  they  were  lost  in  the 
throng,  and  I  thought  it  most  prudent  to  resume  my  place, 
which  I  bad  just  quitted,  as  the  only  certain  way  of  their 
finding  me  in  safety.  In  a  moment  Fitzgerald  returned : 
'  Robinson,'  said  he,  « is  gone  to  seek  you  at  the  entrance- 
door  ;  he  thought  you  had  quitted  the  box.'  '  I  did  for  a 


3°4 


THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 


moment,'  said  I,  'but  I  was  fearful  of  losing  him  in  the 
crowd,  and  therefore  returned.' 

"  'Let  me  conduct  you  to  the  door;  we  shall  certainly 
find  him  there,'  replied  Mr.  Fitzgerald:  'I  know  that  he 
will  be  uneasy. '  I  took  his  arm,  and  we  ran  hastily  towards 
the  entrance-door  on  the  Vauxhall  Road. 

"Mr.  Robinson  was  not  there:  we  proceeded  to  look 
for  our  carriage,  it  stood  at  some  distance.  I  was  alarmed 
and  bewildered.  Mr.  Fitzgerald  hurried  me  along.  '  Don't 
be  uneasy,  we  shall  certainly  find  him,'  said  he,  '  for  I  left 
him  here  not  five  minutes  ago.'  As  he  spoke  he  stopped 
abruptly  ;  a  servant  opened  a  chaise  door ;  there  were  four 
horses  harnessed  to  it :  and,  by  the  light  of  the  lamps  on 
the  side  of  the  foot-path,  I  plainly  perceived  a  pistol  in  the 
pocket  of  the  door,  which  was  open.  I  drew  back.  Mr. 
Fitzgerald  placed  his  arm  round  my  waist,  and  endeavored 
to  lift  me  up  the  step  of  the  chaise ;  the  servant  watching 
at  a  little  distance.  I  resisted,  and  inquired  what  he  meant 
by  such  conduct ;  his  hand  trembled  excessively,  while  he 
said  in  a  low  voice  :  '  Robinson  can  but  fight  me.'  I  was 
terrified  beyond  all  description  : — I  made  him  loose  his 
hold — and  ran  towards  the  entrance-door.  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
now  perceived  Mr.  Robinson.  'Here  he  comes!'  ex- 
claimed he  with  an  easy  nonchalance.  '  We  had  found  the 
wrong  carriage,  Mr.  Robinson  :  we  have  been  looking  after 
you,  and  Mrs.  Robinson  is  alarmed  beyond  expression.' 

"  '  I  am  indeed  !'  said  I.  Mr.  Robinson  now  took  my 
hand.  We  stepped  into  the  coach,  and  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
followed.  As  we  proceeded  towards  Hatton  Garden,  the 
sky  incessantly  flashed  lightning.  I  was  terrified  by  the 
combination  of  events;  and  I  was  in  a  situation  which 
rendered  any  alarm  peculiarly  dangerous,  for  I  was  several 
months  advanced  in  that  state  which  afterwards  terminated 
by  presenting  to  me  my  only  child — my  darling  MARIA. 


AIRS.  ROBINSON. 


3°5 


"I  had  often  heard  of  Mr.  Fitzgerald's  propensity  to 
dueling — I  recollected  my  own  delicate  situation — I  val- 
ued my  husband's  safety,  I  therefore  did  not  mention  the 
adventure  of  the  evening :  particularly  as  Mr.  Fitzgerald 
observed,  in  our  way  to  Hatton  Garden,  that  he  had 
'  nearly  made  a  strange  mistake,  and  taken  possession  of 
another  person's  carriage.'  This  remark  appeared  so  plau- 
sible that  nothing  further  was  said  upon  the  subject. 

"  From  that  evening  I  was  particularly  cautious  in  avoid- 
ing Fitzgerald.  He  was  too  daring,  and  too  fascinating  a 
being,  to  be  allowed  the  smallest  marks  of  confidence. 
Whenever  he  called,  I  was  denied  to  him :  and  at  length, 
perceiving  the  impracticability  of  his  plan,  he  desisted, 
and  seldom  called  excepting  to  leave  his  name,  as  a  visitor 
of  ceremony. 

"  I  do  not  recount  these  events,  these  plans  for  my  en- 
thrallment,  with  a  view  to  convey  anything  like  personal 
vanity;  for  I  can  with  truth  affirm  that  I  never  thought 
myself  entitled  to  admiration  that  could  endanger  my 
security. 

"  I  was  now  known,  by  name,  at  every  public  place  in 
and  near  the  metropolis :  our  circle  of  acquaintances  en- 
larged daily ;  my  friend  Lady  Yea  was  my  constant  com- 
panion. Mr.  Robinson  became  desperate,  from  a  thorough 
conviction  that  no  effort  of  economy  or  professional  labor 
could  arrange  his  shattered  finances :  the  large  debt  which 
he  owed  previous  to  his  marriage  with  me,  having  laid  the 
foundation  for  every  succeeding  embarrassment. 

"  The  moment  now  approached  when  the  arcanum  was 
to  be  developed ;  and  an  execution  on  Mr.  Robinson's 
effects,  at  the  suit  of  an  annuitant,  decided  the  doubts  and 
fears  which  had  long  afflicted  me.  I  was  in  a  great  degree 
prepared  for  this  event,  by  the  evident  inquietude  of  my 
husband's  mind,  and  his  frequent  interviews  with  persons 
26* 


306  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

of  a  mysterious  description.  Indeed  this  crisis  seemed 
rather  consolatory  than  appalling." 

After  many  trials  and  humiliations  she  went  to  the 
country,  but  soon  came  back  to  London.  She  brought  a 
small  collection  of  poems  with  her,  which  she  intended 
publishing,  and  her  "sweet  Maria."  A  few  days  after  her 
arrival  she  was  induced  again  to  visit  Ranalagh,  when  the 
persevering  Mr.  Fitzgerald  and  odious  Lyttelton  again  pur- 
sued her  with  their  attentions.  Her  husband  was  almost 
at  once  arrested,  and  his  beautiful  wife  took  up  her  abode 
with  him  in  the  prison.  There  seemed  to  be  no  prospect 
of  extrication,  when  the  idea  of  the  stage  again  recurred. 
Friends  assisted ;  she  was  introduced  to  Sheridan,  who  af- 
fected to  be  astonished  by  her  powers,  though  he  was  more 
probably  calculating  what  an  addition  such  a  fascinating 
creature  would  be  to  the  ranks  of  his  actresses.  Mr.  Rob- 
inson, who  possessed  more  than  the  average  ingenuity  and 
shifts  of  needy  men,  soon  obtained  his  release,  and  the  matter 
was  now  pushed  forward  with  great  zeal  and  earnestness. 

"  The  only  objection  which  I  felt  to  the  idea  of  appear- 
ing on  the  stage  was  my  then  increasing  state  of  domestic 
solicitude.  I  was,  at  the  period  when  Mr.  Sheridan  was 
first  presented  to  me,  some  months  advanced  in  that  sit- 
uation which  afterwards,  by  the  birth  of  Sophia,  made  me 
a  second  time  a  mother.  Yet  such  was  my  imprudent 
fondness  for  Maria  that  I  was  still  a  nurse ;  and  my  con- 
stitution was  very  considerably  impaired  by  the  effects  of 
these  combining  circumstances. 

"An  appointment  was  made  in  the  green-room  of 
Drury-Lane  Theatre.  Mr.  Garrick,  Mr.  Sheridan,  Mr. 
Brereton,  and  my  husband  were  present ;  I  there  recited 
the  principal  scenes  of  Juliet,  Mr.  Brereton  repeating  those 
of  Romeo,  and  Mr.  Garrick,  without  hesitation,  fixed  on 
that  character  as  a  trial  part  for  my  debut. 


AfRS.  ROBINSON. 


3°  7 


"It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  various  emotions  of 
hope  and  fear  that  possessed  my  mind  when  the  important 
day  was  announced  in  the  play-bills. 

"The  theatre  was  crowded  with  fashionable  spectators: 
the  green-room  and  orchestra  (where  Mr.  Garrick  sat 
during  the  night)  were  thronged  with  critics.  My  dress 
was  a  pale  pink  satin,  trimmed  with  crape,  richly  spangled 
with  silver ;  my  head  was  ornamented  with  white  feathers, 
and  my  monumental  suit,  for  the  last  scene,  was  white 
satin  and  completely  plain ;  excepting  that  I  wore  a  veil 
of  the  most  transparent  gauze,  which  fell  quite  to  my  feet 
from  the  back  of  my  head,  and  a  string  of  beads  round 
my  waist,  to  which  was  suspended  a  cross  appropriately 
fashioned. 

"  When  I  approached  the  side  wing  my  heart  throbbed 
convulsively :  I  then  began  to  fear  that  my  resolution 
would  fail,  and  I  leaned  upon  the  nurse's  arm,  almost 
fainting.  Mr.  Sheridan  and  several  other  friends  encour- 
aged me  to  proceed  ;  and  at  length,  with  trembling  limbs 
and  fearful  apprehension,  I  approached  the  audience. 

"The  thundering  applause  that  greeted  me  nearly  over- 
powered all  my  faculties.  I  stood  mute  and  bending  with 
alarm,  which  did  not  subside  till  I  had  feebly  articulated 
the  few  sentences  of  the  first  short  scene,  during  the  whole 
of  which  I  had  never  once  ventured  to  look  at  the  audience. 
On  my  return  to  the  green-room,  I  was  again  encouraged, 
as  far  as  my  looks  were  deemed  deserving  of  approbation  ; 
for  of  my  powers  nothing  yet  could  be  known,  my  fears 
having  as  it  were  palsied  both  my  voice  and  action.  The 
second  scene  being  the  masquerade,  I  had  time  to  collect 
myself.  I  never  shall  forget  the  sensation  which  rushed 
through  my  bosom  when  I  first  looked  towards  the  pit.  I 
beheld  a  gradual  ascent  of  heads  :  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
me ;  and  the  sensation  they  conveyed  was  awfully  impres- 


308  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

sive :  but  the  keen,  the  penetrating  eyes  of  Mr.  Garrick, 
darting  their  lustre  from  the  centre  of  the  orchestra,  were, 
beyond  all  others,  the  objects  most  conspicuous. 

"As  I  acquired  courage  I  found  the  applause  augment; 
and  the  night  was  concluded  with  peals  of  clamorous  ap- 
probation. I  was  complimented  on  all  sides ;  but  the 
praise  of  one  object,  whom  most  I  wished  to  please,  was 
flattering  even  to  the  extent  of  human  vanity.  I  then  ex- 
perienced, for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  a  gratification  which 
language  could  not  utter.  I  had  till  that  period  known  no 
impulse  beyond  that  of  friendship ;  I  had  been  an  example 
of  conjugal  fidelity ;  but  I  had  never  known  the  perils  to 
which  the  feeling  heart  is  subjected,  in  an  union  of  regard 
wholly  uninfluenced  by  the  affections  of  the  soul. 

"  The  second  character  which  I  played  was  Amanda, 
in  '  A  Trip  to  Scarbro.'  The  play  was  altered  from  Van- 
burgh's  '  Relapse'  ;  and  the  audience,  supposing  it  was  a 
new  piece,  on  finding  themselves  deceived,  expressed  a 
considerable  degree  of  disapprobation.  I  was  terrified 
beyond  imagination  when  Mrs.  Yates,  no  longer  able  to 
bear  the  hissing  of  the  audience,  quitted  the  scene  and 
left  me  alone  to  encounter  the  critic  tempest.  I  stood  for 
some  moments  as  though  I  had  been  petrified  :  Mr.  Sheri- 
dan, from  the  side  wing,  desired  me  not  to  quit  the  boards ; 
the  late  Duke  of  Cumberland,  from  the  stage-box,  bade  me 
take  courage — '  It  is  not  you,  but  the  play,  they  hiss,'  said 
his  Royal  Highness.  I  curtsied  ;  and  that  curtsey  seemed 
to  electrify  the  whole  house ;  for  a  thundering  peal  of  en- 
couraging applause  followed, — the  comedy  was  suffered  to 
go  on,  and  is  to  this  hour  a  stock  play  at  Drury  Lane 
Theatre. 

"  I  often  saw  Mr.  Sheridan,  whose  manner  had  lost  no- 
thing of  its  interesting  attention.  He  continued  to  visit 
me  very  frequently,  and  always  gave  me  the  most  friendly 


MKS.  XOBIXSOA*. 


3°9 


counsel.  He  knew  that  I  was  not  properly  protected  by  Mr. 
Robinson,*  but  he  was  too  generous  to  build  his  gratifica- 
tion on  the  detraction  of  another.  The  happiest  moments 
I  then  knew  were  passed  in  the  society  of  this  distinguished 
being.  He  saw  me  ill-bestowed  upon  a  man  who  neither 
loved  nor  valued  me :  he  lamented  my  destiny,  but  with 
such  delicate  propriety,  that  it  consoled  while  it  revealed 
to  me  the  un happiness  of  my  situation. 

"  My  popularity  increasing  every  night  that  I  appeared, 
my  prospects,  both  of  fame  and  affluence,  began  to  brighten. 
We  now  hired  the  house  which  is  situated  between  the 
Hnmmnms  and  the  Bedford  Arms,  Covent  Garden  :  it  had 
been  built  (I  believe)  by  Doctor  Fisher,  who  married  the 
widow  of  the  celebrated  actor  Powell :  bat  Mr.  Robinson 
took  the  premises  of  Mrs.  Mattocks,  of  Corent  Garden 
Theatre.  The  house  was  particularly  convenient  in  every 
respect ;  but,  above  all  on  account  of  its  vicinity  to  Dniry 
Lane.  Here  I  hoped  to  enjoy,  at  least,  some  cheerful 
days,  as  I  found  that  my  circle  of  friends  increased  almost 
hourly.  In  proportion  as  play  obtained  its  influence 
over  my  husband's  mind,  his  small  degree  of  remaining 
regard  for  me  visibly  decayed.  We  now  had  horses,  a 
phaeton  and  ponies ;  and  my  fashions  in  dress  were  fol- 
lowed with  flattering  avidity.  My  house  was  thronged 
with  visitors,  and  my  morning  levees  were  crowded,  so 
that  I  could  scarcely  find  a  quiet  hour  for  study.  Mr. 
Sheridan  was  still  my  most  esteemed  of  friends.  He  ad- 
vised me  with  the  gentlest  anxiety,  and  he  warned  me  of 
the  danger  which  expense  would  produce,  and  which  might 
interrupt  the  rising  progress  of  my  dramatic  reputation. 
Situated  as  I  was  at  this  time,  the  effort  was  difficult  to 
avoid  the  society  of  Mr.  Sheridan.  He  was  manager  of 
the  theatre.  I  could  not  shun  seeing  and  conversing  with 
him,  at  rehearsals  and  behind  the  scenes :  and  his  con- 


3io 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


versation  was  always  such  as  to  fascinate  and  charm  me. 
The  green-room  was  frequented  by  nobility  and  men  of 
genius ;  among  these  were  Mr.  Fox  and  the  Earl  of  Derby. 
I  had  then  been  married  more  than  four  years,  my  daughter 
Maria  Elizabeth  nearly  three  years  old.  I  had  been  then 
seen,  and  known,  at  all  public  places  from  the  age  of 
fifteen  ;  yet  I  knew  as  little  of  the  world's  deceptions  as 
though  I  had  been  educated  in  the  deserts  of  Siberia.  I 
believed  every  woman  friendly,  every  man  sincere,  till 
I  discovered  proofs  that  their  characters  were  deceptive. 

"  I  had  now  performed  two  seasons,  in  tragedy  and 
comedy.  The  play  of  THE  WINTER'S  TALE  was  this  sea- 
son commanded  by  their  majesties.  I  never  had  performed 
before  the  royal  family ;  and  the  first  character  in  which  I 
was  destined  so  to  appear  was  that  of  PERDITA.  I  had  fre- 
quently played  the  part,  both  with  the  Hermione  of  Mrs. 
Hartley  and  of  Miss  Farren ;  but  I  felt  a  strange  degree 
of  alarm  when  I  found  my  name  announced  to  perform  it 
before  the  royal  family. 

"  In  the  green-room  I  was  rallied  on  the  occasion  ;  and 
Mr.  Smith,  whose  gentlemanly  manners  and  enlightened 
conversation  rendered  him  an  ornament  to  the  profession, 
who  performed  the  part  of  Leontes,  laughingly  exclaimed, 
'  By  Jove,  Mrs.  Robinson,  you  will  make  a  conquest  of  the 
Prince:  for  to-night  you  look  handsomer  than  ever.'  I 
smiled  at  the  unmerited  compliment ;  and  little  foresaw 
the  vast  variety  of  events  that  would  arise  from  that  night's 
exhibition ! 

"As  I  stood  in  the  wing  opposite  the  Prince's  box, 
waiting  to  go  on  the  stage,  Mr.  Ford,  the  manager's  son, 
and  now  a  respectable  defender  of  the  laws,  presented  a 
friend  who  accompanied  him  ;  this  friend  was  Lord  Vis- 
count Maiden,  now  Earl  of  Essex. 

"  We  entered  into  conversation  during  a  few  minutes, 


MRS.   ROBINSON.  '  3!f 

the  Prince  of  Wales  all  the  time  observing  us,  and  fre- 
quently speaking  to  Colonel  (now  General)  Lake  and  to 
the  Hon  Mr.  Legge,  brother  to  Lord  Lewisham,  who  was 
in  waiting  on  his  Royal  Highness.  I  hurried  through  the 
first  scene,  not  without  much  embarrassment,  owing  to  the 
fixed  attention  with  which  the  Prince  of  Wales  honored 
me.  Indeed,  some  flattering  remarks  which  were  made  by 
his  Royal  Highness  met  my  ear  as  I  stood  near  his  box,  and 
I  was  overwhelmed  with  confusion. 

"  The  Prince's  particular  attention  was  observed  by  every- 
one, and  I  was  again  rallied  at  the  end  of  the  play.  On 
the  last  curtsey,  the  royal  family  condescendingly  returned 
a  bow  to  the  performers  :  but,  just  as  the  curtain  was  fall- 
ing, my  eyes  met  those  of  the  Prince  of  Wales ;  and  with 
a  look  that  I  nerer  shall  forget,  he  gently  inclined  his  head 
a  second  time:  I  felt  the  compliment,  and  blushed  my 
gratitnde. 

"  During  the  entertainment,  Lord  Maiden  never  ceased 
conversing  with  me !  he  was  young,  pleasing,  and  perfectly 
accomplished.  He  remarked  the  particular  applause  which 
the  Prince  had  bestowed  on  ray  performance,  said  a  thou- 
sand civil  things,  and  detained  me  in  conversation  till  the 
evening's  performance  was  concluded. 

"I  was  now  going  to  my  chair,  which  waited,  when  I  met 
the  royal  family  crossing  the  stage.  I  was  again  honored 
with  a  very  marked  and  low  bow  from  the  Prince  of  Wales. 
On  my  return  home,  I  had  a  party  to  supper;  and  the  whole 
conversation  centred  in  encomiums  on  the  person,  graces, 
and  amiable  manners  of  the  illustrious  heir-apparent. 

"  Within  two  or  three  days  of  this  time,  Lord  Maiden 
made  me  a  morning  visit :  Mr.  Robinson  was  not  at  home, 
and  I  received  him  rather  awkwardly.  But  his  Lordship's 
embarrassment  far  exceeded  mine :  he  attempted  to  speak, 
paused,  hesitated,  apologized :  I  knew  not  why.  He  hoped 


3I2 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


I  would  pardon  him ;  that  I  would  not  mention  something 
he  had  to  communicate;  that  I  would  consider  the  peculiar 
delicacy  of  his  situation,  and  then  act  as  I  thought  proper. 
I  could  not  comprehend  his  meaning,  and  therefore  re- 
quested that  he  would  be  explicit. 

"  After  some  moments  of  evident  rumination,  he  trem- 
blingly drew  a  small  letter  from  his  pocket.  I  took  it,  and 
knew  not  what  to  say.  It  was  addressed  to  PERDITA.  I 
smiled,  I  believe,  rather  sarcastically,  and  opened  the  billet. 
It  contained  only  a  few  words,  but  those  expressive  of  more 
than  common  civility  :  they  were  signed,  FLORIZEL. 

"  'Well,  my  Lord,  and  what  does  this  mean?'  said  I, 
half  angry. 

"  '  Can  you  not  guess  the  writer?'  said  Lord  Maiden. 

"  'Perhaps  yourself,  my  Lord?'  cried  I,  gravely. 

"'Upon  my  honor,  no,'  said  the  Viscount.  'I  should 
not  have  dared  so  to  address  you  on  so  short  an  acquaint- 
ance. ' 

"I  pressed  him  to  tell  me  from  whom  the  letter  came. 
He  again  hesitated  :  he  seemed  confused  and  sorry  that  he 
had  undertaken  to  deliver  it.  '  I  hope  that  I  shall  not 
forfeit  your  good  opinion,'  said  he,  'but ' 

"'But  what,  my  Lord?' 

"  '  I  could  not  refuse, — for  the  letter  is  from  the  Prince 
of  Wales.' 

"I  was  astonished:  I  confess  that  I  was  agitated;  but 
I  was  also  somewhat  skeptical  as  to  the  truth  of  Lord 
Maiden's  assertion.  I  returned  a  formal  and  a  doubtful 
answer ;  and  his  Lordship  shortly  after  took  his  leave. 

"A  thousand  times  did  I  read  this  short  but  expressive 
letter ;  still  I  did  not  implicitly  believe  that  it  was  written 
by  the  Prince:  I  rather  considered  it  as  an  experiment 
made  by  Lord  Maiden  either  on  my  vanity  or  propriety  of 
conduct.  On  the  next  evening  the  Viscount  repeated  his 


MRS.  ROBINSON.  313 

visit :  we  had  a  card-party  of  six  or  seven,  and  the  Prince 
of  Wales  was  again  the  subject  of  unbounded  panegyric. 
Lord  Maiden  spoke  of  his  Royal  Highness' s  manners  as 
the  most  polished  and  fascinating;  of  his  temper,  as  the 
most  engaging;  and  of  his  mind,  the  most  replete  with 
every  amiable  sentiment.  I  heard  these  praises,  and  my 
heart  beat  with  conscious  pride,  while  memory  turned  to 
the  partial  but  delicately  respectful  letter  which  I  had 
received  on  the  preceding  morning. 

"The  next  day,  Lord  Maiden  brought  me  a  second 
letter.  He  assured  me  that  the  Prince  was  most  unhappy 
lest  I  should  be  offended  at  his  conduct ;  and  that  he 
conjured  me  to  go  that  night  to  the  Oratorio,  where  he 
would  by  some  signal  convince  me  that  he  was  the  writer 
of  the  letters,  supposing  I  was  still  skeptical  as  to  their 
authenticity. 

"I  went  to  the  Oratorio;  and,  on  my  taking  my  seat 
in  the  balcony  box,  the  Prince  almost  instantaneously  ob- 
served me.  He  held  the  printed  bill  before  his  face,  and 
drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead ;  still  fixing  his  eyes  on 
me.  I  was  confused,  and  knew  not  what  to  do.  My  hus- 
band was  with  me,  and  I  was  fearful  of  his  observing  what 
passed.  Still  the  Prince  continued  to  make  signs,  such  as 
moving  his  hand  on  the  edge  of  the  box  as  if  writing,  theft 
speaking  to  the  Duke  of  York  (then  Bishop  of  Osnaburg) 
who  also  looked  towards  me  with  particular  attention. 

"I  now  observed  one  of  the  gentlemen  in  waiting  bring 
the  Prince  a  glass  of  water ;  before  he  raised  it  to  his  lips, 
he  looked  at  me.  So  marked  was  his  Royal  Highness's 
conduct  that  many  of  the  audience  observed  it :  several 
persons  in  the  pit  directed  their  gaze  at  the  place  where  I 
sat ;  and,  on  the  following  day,  one  of  the  diurnal  prints 
observed  that  there  was  one  passage  in  Dryden's  Ode  which 
seemed  particularly  interesting  to  the  Prince  of  Wales,  who 
o  27 


3i4  THE    ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

'  Gazed  on  the  fair 
Who  caused  his  care, 
And  sigh'd,  and  look'd,  and  sigh'd  again.' 

"However  flattering  it  might  have  been,  to  female  van- 
ity, to  know  that  the  most  admired  and  most  accomplished 
Prince  in  Europe  was  devotedly  attached  to  me;  however 
dangerous  to  the  heart  such  idolatry  as  his  Royal  Highness, 
during  many  months,  professed  in  almost  daily  letters, 
which  were  conveyed  to  me  by  Lord  Maiden,  still  I  de- 
clined any  interview  with  his  Royal  Highness.  I  was  not 
insensible  to  all  his  powers  of  attraction  :  I  thought  him 
one  of  the  most  amiable  of  men.  There  was  a  beautiful 
ingenuousness  in  his  language,  a  warm  and  enthusiastic 
adoration  expressed  in  every  letter,  which  interested  and 
charmed  me.  During  the  whole  spring,  till  the  theatre 
closed,  this  correspondence  continued ;  every  day  giving 
me  some  new  assurance  of  inviolable  affection. 

"After  we  had  corresponded  some  months  without  ever 
speaking  to  each  other  (for  I  still  declined  meeting  his 
Royal  Highness,  from  a  dread  of  the  eclat  which  such  a 
connection  would  produce,  and  the  fear  of  injuring  him 
in  the  opinion  of  his  royal  relatives)  I  received,  through 
the  hands  of  Lord  Maiden,  the  Prince's  portrait  in  minia- 
ture painted  by  the  late  Mr.  Meyer.  This  picture  is  now 
in  my  possession.  Within  the  case  was  a  small  heart  cut 
in  paper,  which  I  also  have :  on  one  side  was  written  'Je 
ne  change  qii*  en  mourant.'  On  the  other,  ' Unalterable  to 
my  Perdita  through  life. ' 

"  During  many  months  of  confidential  correspondence, 
I  always  offered  his  Royal  Highness  the  best  advice  in  my 
power ;  and  disclaimed  every  sordid  and  interested  thought. 
At  every  interview  with  Lord  Maiden,  I  perceived  that  he 
regretted  the  task  he  had  undertaken  ;  but  he  assured  me 
that  the  Prince  was  almost  frantic  whenever  he  suggested 


MXS.  XOSfJVSO.V. 


315 


a  wish  to  decline  interfering.  Once  I  remember  his  Lord- 
ship's teliing  me  that  the  late  Duke  of  Cumberland  had 
made  him  a  visit  early  in  the  morning,  at  his  house  in 
Clarges  Street,  informing  him  that  the  Prince  was  most 
wretched  on  my  account,  and  imploring  him  to  continue 
his  services  only  a  short  time  longer.  The  Prince's  estab- 
lishment was  then  in  agitation :  at  this  period  his  Royal 
Highness  still  resided  in  Buckingham  House. 

"  A  proposal  was  now  made  that  I  should  meet  his  Royal 
Highness,  at  his  apartments,  in  the  disguise  of  male  attire. 
I  was  accustomed  to  perform  in  that  dress,  and  the  Prince 
had  seen  me  (I  believe)  in  the  character  of  the  *  Irish 
Widow.*  To  this  plan  I  decidedly  objected.  The  in- 
delicacy of  such  a  step,  as  well  as  the  danger  of  detec- 
tion, made  me  shrink  from  the  proposal.  My  refusal 
threw  his  Royal  Highness  into  the  most  distressing  agita- 
tion, as  was  expressed  by  the  letter  which  I  received  on 
the  following  morning.  Lord  Maiden  again  lamented 
that  he  had  engaged  himself  in  the  intercourse :  and  de- 
clared that  he  had  himself  conceived  so  violent  a  passion 
for  me  that  he  was  the  most  miserable  and  unfortunate  of 
mortals. 

'*  During  this  period,  though  Mr.  Robinson  was  a  stranger 
to  my  epistolary  intercourse  with  the  Prince,  his  conduct 
was  entirely  neglectful.  He  was  perfectly  careless  respect- 
ing my  fame  and  my  repose.  His  indifference  naturally 
produced  an  alienation  of  esteem  on  my  side,  and  the 
increasing  adoration  of  the  most  enchanting  of  mortals 
hourly  reconciled  my  mind  to  the  idea  of  a  separation.  The 
unbounded  assurances  of  lasting  affection  which  I  received 
from  his  Royal  Highness  in  many  scores  of  the  most  elo- 
quent letters,  the  contempt  which  I  experienced  from  my 
husband,  and  the  perpetual  labor  which  I  underwent  for 
his  support,  at  length  began  to  weary  my  fortitude.  Still 


3i6  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

I  was  reluctant  to  become  the  theme  of  public  animadver- 
sion ;  and  still  I  remonstrated  with  my  husband  on  the 
unkindness  of  his  conduct." 

It  should  be  mentioned  that  these  candid  confessions 
were  written  at  a  period  when  her  frailties  had  been  con- 
doned and  she  had  found  a  number  of  friends  and  acquaint- 
ances of  a  respectable  character,  who  felt  that  a  weak  and 
interesting  woman  had  been  deliberately  made  the  victim 
of  one  of  the  most  selfish  and  unprincipled  of  men.  The 
unfortunate  lady  was  quite  dazzled  by  the  tinsel  charms  of 
this  sham  Adonis,  and  seemed  to  find  something  more  than 
mortal  in  the  florid  beauty  of  this  most  gross  and  selfish  of 
admirers.  Without  officially  extenuating  her  follies,  this 
much  may  be  said,  that  she  is  entitled  to  some  indulgence 
on  the  ground  of  the  neglect  of  the  husband  who  should 
have  protected  her,  and  the  persevering  arts  that  were  em- 
ployed to  ensnare  her.  A  still  more  favorable  extenuation 
was,  that  being  of  an  unformed  and  romantic  turn,  it  was 
artfully  attempted  to  give  a  sentimental  and  comparatively 
innocent  turn  to  the  affair,  and  incidents  of  secrecy,  dis- 
guise, mufflings,  &c.,  were  employed  by  the  precocious 
lover,  who  had  dubbed  himself  Florizel,  and  the  finished 
scoundrel,  Lord  Maiden,  who  acted  as  his  agent  in  the 
affair.  The  loves  of  Florizel  and  Perdita  sounded  prettily 
in  the  newspapers,  which  in  the  "obsequious  jargon  then 
fashionable  spoke  of  one  "whose  manners  were  resistless 
and  whose  was  victory." 

At  length  "after  many  alternations  of  feeling,"  a  meet- 
ing was  arranged  under  circumstances  of  the  most  melo- 
dramatic character. 

"Lord  Maiden  and  myself  dined  at  the  inn  on  the 
island  between  Kew  and  Brentford.  We  waited  the  signal 
for  crossing  the  river,  in  a  boat  which  had  been  engaged 
for  the  purpose.  Heaven  can  witness  how  many  conflicts 


MJtS.  KOBIXSOX. 


317 


my  agitated  heart  endured  at  this  important  moment !  I 
admired  the  Prince ;  I  felt  grateful  for  his  affection.  He 
was  Ike  most  engaging  of  created  brings.  I  had  corre- 
sponded with  him  during  many  months,  and  his  eloquent 
letters,  the  exquisite  sensibility  which  breathed  through 
every  line,  his  ardent  professions  of  adoration,  had  com- 
bined to  shake  my  feeble  resolution.  The  handkerchief 
was  waved  on  the  opposite  shore ;  but  the  signal  was,  by 
the  dusk  of  the  evening,  rendered  almost  imperceptible. 
Lord  Maiden  took  my  hand ;  I  stepped  into  the  boat,  and 
in  a  few  minutes  we  landed  before  the  iron  gates  of  old 
Kew  Palace.  The  interview  was  but  of  a  moment.  The 
Prince  of  Wales  and  the  Duke  of  York  (then  Bishop  of 
Osnaburg)  were  walking  down  the  avenue.  They  hastened 
to  meet  us.  A  few  words,  and  those  scarcely  articulate, 
were  uttered  by  the  Prince,  when  a  noise  of  people  ap- 
proaching from  the  palace  startled  us.  The  moon  was 
now  rising;  and  the  idea  of  being  overheard,  or  of  his 
Royal  Highness  being  seen  out  at  so  unusual  an  hoar,  terri- 
fied the  whole  group.  After  a  few  more  words  of  the  most 
affectionate  nature  uttered  by  the  Prince,  we  parted,  and 
Lord  Maiden  and  myself  returned  to  the  island.  The 
Prince  never  quitted  the  avenue,  nor  the  presence  of  the 
Duke  of  York,  during  the  whole  of  this  short  meeting. 
Alas!  my  friend,  if  my  mind  was  before  influenced  by 
esteem,  it  was  now  awakened  to  the  most  enthusiastic 
admiration.  The  rank  of  the  Prince  no  longer  chilled  into 
awe  that  being,  who  now  considered  him  as  the  lover  and 
the  friend.  The  grates  of  his  person,  the  irresistible  sweet- 
ness of  his  smile,  the  tenderness  of  his  melodious  yet  manly 
Toue,  vrill  be  remembered  by  me  till  every  vision  of  this 
changing  scene  shall  be  forgotten. 

"  Many  and  frequent  were  the  interviews  which  after- 
wards took  place  at  this  romantic  spot :  our  walks  some- 


318  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

times  continued  till  past  midnight;  the  Duke  of  York  and 
Lord  Maiden  were  always  of  the  party  ;  our  conversation 
was  composed  of  general  topics.  The  Prince  had,  from 
his  infancy,  been  wholly  secluded,  and  naturally  took  much 
pleasure  in  conversing  about  the  busy  world,  its  manners 
and  pursuits,  characters  and  scenery.  Nothing  could  be 
more  delightful  or  more  rational  than  our  midnight  per- 
ambulations. I  always  wore  a  dark-colored  habit :  the  rest 
of  our  party  generally  wrapped  themselves  in  great  coats 
to  disguise  them,  excepting  the  Duke  of  York,  who  almost 
universally  alarmed  us  by  the  display  of  a  buff  coat,  the 
most  conspicuous  color  he  could  have  selected  for  an  ad- 
venture of  this  nature.  The  polished  and  fascinating  in- 
genuousness of  his  Royal  Highness's  manners  contributed 
not  a  little  to  enliven  our  promenades.  He  sang  with  ex- 
quisite taste ;  and  the  tones  of  his  voice  breaking  on  the 
silence  of  the  night,  have  often  appeared  to  my  entranced 
senses  like  more  than  mortal  melody.  Often  have  I  lamented 
the  distance  which  destiny  had  placed  between  us :  how 
would  my  soul  have  idolized  such  a  husband !  Alas  !  how 
often,  in  the  ardent  enthusiasm  of  my  soul,  have  I  formed 
the  wish  that  being  were  mine  alone !  to  whom  partial 
millions  were  to  look  up  for  protection. 

"  The  Duke  of  York  was  now  on  the  eve  of  quitting  the 
country  for  Hanover :  the  Prince  was  also  on  the  point  of 
receiving  his  first  establishment ;  and  the  apprehension  that 
this  attachment  might  injure  his  Royal  Highness,  in  the 
opinion  of  the  world,  rendered  the  caution,  which  was  in- 
variably observed,  of  the  utmost  importance.  A  consider- 
able time  elapsed  in  these  delightful  scenes  of  visionary 
happiness.  The  Prince's  attachment  seemed  to  increase 
daily,  and  I  considered  myself  as  the  most  blest  of  human 
beings.  During  some  time,  we  had  enjoyed  our  meetings 
in  the  neighborhood  of  Kew ;  and  I  now  looked  forward 


AIRS.  ROBINSON.  319 

to  the  adjusting  of  his  Royal  Highness's  establishment  for 
the  public  avowal  of  our  mutual  attachment. 

"I  had  relinquished  my  profession.  The  last  night  of 
my  appearance  on  the  stage,  I  represented  the  character 
of  Sir  Harry  Revel,  in  the  comedy  of  'The  Miniature 
Picture,'  written  by  Lady  Craven  ;*  and  '  The  Irish 
Widow.'  On  entering  the  green-room,  I  informed  Mr. 
Moody,  who  played  in  the  farce,  that  I  should  appear  no 
more  after  that  night ;  and,  endeavoring  to  smile  while  I 
sang,  I  repeated, 

1  Oh  joy  to  you  all  in  full  measure. 
So  wishes  and  prays  Widow  Brady  !' 

which  were  the  last  lines  of  my  song  in  'The  Irish 
Widow.'  This  effort  to  conceal  the  emotion  I  felt,  on 
quitting  a  profession  I  enthusiastically  loved,  was  of  short 
duration ;  and  I  burst  into  tears  on  my  appearance.  My 
regret,  at  recollecting  that  I  was  treading  for  the  last  time 
the  boards  where  I  had  so  often  received  the  most  gratify- 
ing testimonies  of  the  public  approbation,  where  mental 
exertion  had  been  emboldened  by  private  worth,  that  I 
was  flying  from  a  happy  certainty,  perhaps  to  pursue  the 
phantom  disappointment,  nearly  overwhelmed  my  facul- 
ties, and  for  some  time  deprived  me  of  the  power  of  artic- 
ulation. Fortunately,  the  person  on  the  stage  with  me 
had  to  begin  the  scene,  which  allowed  me  time  to  col- 
lect myself.  I  went,  however,  mechanically  dull  through 
the  business  of  the  evening;  and,  notwithstanding  the 
cheering  expressions  and  applause  of  the  audience,  I  was 
several  times  near  fainting. 

"The  daily  prints  now  indulged  the  malice  of  my  ene- 
mies by  the  most  scandalous  paragraphs  respecting  the 

*  Now  Margravine  of  Anspach. 


320 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


Prince  of  Wales  and  myself.  I  found  it  was  too  late  to 
stop  the  hourly  augmenting  torrent  of  abuse  that  was 
poured  upon  me  from  all  quarters.  Whenever  I  appeared 
in  public,  I  was  overwhelmed  by  the  gazing  of  the  multi- 
tude. I  was  frequently  obliged  to  quit  Ranelagh,  owing 
to  the  crowd  which  staring  curiosity  had  assembled  round 
my  box;  and,  even  in  the  streets  of  the  metropolis,  I 
scarcely  ventured  to  enter  a  shop  without  experiencing  the 
greatest  inconvenience.  Many  hours  have  I  waited  till 
the  crowd  dispersed  which  surrounded  my  carriage  in  ex- 
pectation of  my  quitting  the  shop.  I  cannot  suppress  a 
smile  at  the  absurdity  of  such  proceeding,  when  I  remem- 
ber that,  during  nearly  three  seasons  I  was  almost  every 
night  upon  the  stage,  and  that  I  had  then  been  nearly  five 
years  with  Mr.  Robinson  at  every  fashionable  place  of 
entertainment.  But,  thank  Heaven  !  my  heart  was  not 
formed  in  the  mould  of  callous  effrontery.  I  shuddered 
at  the  gulf  before  me,  and  felt  small  gratification  in  the 
knowledge  of  having  taken  a  step  which  many,  who  con- 
demned, would  have  been  no  less  willing  to  imitate,  had 
they  been  placed  in  the  same  situation." 

In  this  sort  of  Delia  Cruscan  dream  the  unfortunate  lady 
was  living,  forming  perspectives  of  yet  more  delightful 
visions  beyond.  But  she  did  not  know  of  what  was  a 
specially  disagreeable  feature  in  the*  character  of  one  who 
was  to  be  the  future  first  gentleman  in  Europe.  An  almost 
invariable  portion  of  his  programme  in  such  affaires  de  cceur 
was  a  sudden  desertion,  as  abrupt  as  his  advances  had  been 
gradual  and  impassioned.  Full  of  anticipations  the  most 
romantic,  and  shutting  her  eyes  to  all  consequences,  the 
deceived  lady  had  taken  her  leave  of  the  stage. 

"  The  period  now  approached  that  was  to  destroy  all 
the  fairy  visions  which  had  filled  my  mind  with  dreams  of 
happiness.  At  the  moment  when  everything  was  preparing 


MRS.  ROBINSON.  321 

for  his  Royal  Highness's  establishment,  when  I  looked  im- 
patiently for  the  arrival  of  that  day  on  which  I  might  behold 
my  adored  friend  gracefully  receiving  the  acclamations  of 
his  future  subjects,  when  I  might  enjoy  the  public  protection 
of  that  being  for  whom  I  gave  up  all,  I  received  a  letter  from 
his  Royal  Highness,  a  cold  and  unkind  letter — briefly  in- 
forming me  that  *  we  must  meet  no  more  /' 

"  And  now,  suffer  me  to  call  GOD  to  witness,  that  I  was 
unconscious  why  this  decision  had  taken  place  in  his  High- 
ness's  mind :  only  two  days  previous  to  this  letter  being 
written  I  had  seen  the  Prince  at  Kew,  and  his  affection 
appeared  to  be  boundless  as  it  was  undiminished. 

"Amazed,  afflicted  beyond  the  power  of  utterance,  I 
wrote  immediately  to  his  Royal  Highness  and  required  an 
explanation.  He  remained  silent.  Again  I  wrote,  but  re- 
ceived no  elucidation  of  this  most  cruel  and  extraordinary 
mystery.  The  Prince  was  then  at  Windsor.  I  set  out  in  a 
small  pony  phaeton,  wretched,  and  unaccompanied  by  any 
one  except  my  postillion  (a  child  of  nine  years  of  age). 
It  was  nearly  dark  when  we  quitted  Hyde  Park  Corner. 
On  my  arrival  at  Hounslow,  the  innkeeper  informed  me 
that  every  carriage  which  had  passed  the  heath  for  the  last 
ten  nights  had  been  attacked  and  rifled.  I  confess  the  idea 
of  personal  danger  had  no  terrors  for  my  mind,  in  the  state 
it  th*en  was ;  and  the  possibility  of  annihilation,  divested  of 
the  crime  of  suicide,  encouraged  rather  than  diminished  my 
determination  of  proceeding.  We  had  scarcely  reached  the 
middle  of  the  heath  when  my  horses  were  startled  by  the 
sudden  appearance  of  a  man,  rushing  from  the  side  of  the 
road.  The  boy  on  perceiving  him  instantly  spurred  his 
pony,  and,  by  a  sudden  bound  of  our  light  vehicle,  the 
ruffian  missed  his  grasp  at  the  front  rein.  We  now  pro- 
ceeded at  full  speed,  while  the  footpad  ran,  endeavoring  to 
overtake  us.  At  length,  my  horses  fortunately  outrunning 
o* 


322  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

the  perseverance  of  the  assailant,  we,  at  last,  reached  the 
Magpie,  a  small  inn  on  the  heath,  in  safety.  The  alarm 
which,  in  spite  of  my  resolution,  this  adventure  had  cre- 
ated, was  augmented  on  my  recollecting  for  the  first  time, 
that  I  had  then  in  my  black  stock  a  brilliant  stud  of  very 
considerable  value,  which  could  only  have  been  possessed 
by  the  robber  by  strangling  the  wearer. 

"If  my  heart  palpitated  with  joy  at  my  escape  from 
assassination,  a  circumstance  soon  after  occurred  that  did 
not  tend  to  quiet  my  emotion.  This  was  the  appearance 

of  Mr.  H.  Meynel  and  Mrs.  A .  My  foreboding 

soul  instantly  beheld  a  rival,  and,  with  jealous  eagerness, 
interpreted  the  hitherto  inexplicable  conduct  of  the  Prince, 
from  his  having  frequently  expressed  his  wish  to  know  that 
lady. 

"On  my  arrival,  the  Prince  would  not  see  me.  My 
agonies  were  now  indescribable.  I  consulted  with  Lord 
Maiden  and  the  Duke  of  Dorset,  whose  honorable  mind 
and  truly  disinterested  friendship  had,  on  many  occasions, 
been  exemplified  towards  me.  They  were  both  at  a  loss  to 
divine  any  cause  of  this  sudden  change  in  the  Prince's  feel- 
ings. The  Prince  of  Wales  had  hitherto  assiduously  sought 
opportunities  to  distinguish  me  more  publicly  than  was 
prudent,  in  his  Royal  Highness's  situation.  This  was  in 
the  month  of  August.  On  the  fourth  of  the  preceding 
June,  I  went,  by  his  desire,  into  the  Chamberlain's  box 
at  the  birth-night  ball :  the  distressing  observation  of  the 
circle  was  drawn  towards  the  part  of  the  box  in  which  I 
sat,  by  the  marked  and  injudicious  attentions  of  his  Royal 
Highness.  I  had  not  been  arrived  many  minutes  before  I 
witnessed  a  singular  species  of  fashionable  coquetry.  Pre- 
vious to  his  Highness's  beginning  his  minuet,  I  perceived 
a  woman  of  high  rank  select  from  the  bouquet  she  wore, 
two  rosebuds,  which  she  gave  to  the  Prince,  as  he  after- 


MRS.  ROBINSON. 


323 


wards  informed  me,  'emblematical  of  herself  and  him:'  I 
observed  his  Royal  Highness  immediately  beckon  to  a 
nobleman,  who  has  since  formed  a  part  of  his  establish- 
ment, and,  looking  most  earnestly  at  me,  whisper  a  few 
words,  at  the  same  time  presenting  to  him  his  newly  acquired 
trophy.  In  a  few  moments  Lord  C.  entered  the  Cham- 
berlain's box,  and  giving  the  rosebuds  into  my  hands, 
informed  me  that  he  was  commissioned  by  the  Prince  to 
do  so.  I  placed  them  in  my  bosom,  and,  I  confess,  felt 
proud  of  the  power  by  which  I  thus  publicly  mortified  an 
exalted  rival.  His  Royal  Highness  now  avowedly  distin- 
guished me  at  all  public  places  of  entertainment ;  at  the 
King's  hunt,  near  Windsor,  at  the  reviews,  and  at  the 
theatres.  The  Prince  only  seemed  happy  in  evincing  his 
affection  towards  me. 

"How  terrible  then  was  the  change  to  my  feelings! 
And  I  again  most  SOLEMNLY  REPEAT,  that  I  was  totally 
ignorant  of  any  JUST  CAUSE  for  so  sudden  an  alteration. 

"My  'good-natured  friends'  now  carefully  informed  me 
of  the  multitude  of  secret  enemies  who  were  ever  employed 
in  estranging  the  Prince's  mind  from  me.  So  fascinating, 
so  illustrious  a  lover  could  not  fail  to  excite  the  envy  of  my 
own  sex.  Women  of  all  descriptions  were  emulous  of 
attracting  his  Royal  Highness's  attention.  Alas  !  I  had 
neither  rank  nor  power  to  oppose  such  adversaries.  Every 
engine  of  female  malice  was  set  in  motion  to  destroy  my 
repose  ;  and  every  petty  calumny  was  repeated  with  tenfold 
embellishments.  Tales  of  the  most  infamous  and  glaring 
falsehood  were  invented ;  and  I  was  again  assailed  by 
pamphlets,  by  paragraphs,  by  caricatures,  and  all  the  artil- 
lery of  slander,  while  the  only  being  to  whom  I  then 
looked  up  for  protection  was  so  situated  as  to  be  unable  to 
afford  it.  In  the  anguish  of  my  soul,  I  once  more  ad- 
dressed the  Prince  of  Wales.  I  complained,  perhaps  too 


324 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


vehemently,  of  his  injustice ;  and  of  the  calumnies  which 
had  been  by  my  enemies  fabricated  against  me,  of  the 
falsehood  of  which  he  was  but  too  sensible.  I  conjured 
him  to  render  me  justice.  He  did  so :  he  wrote  me  a 
most  eloquent  letter,  disclaiming  the  causes  alleged  by  a 
calumniating  world,  and  fully  acquitting  me  of  the  charges 
which  had  been  propagated  to  destroy  me. 
I  "I  resided  now  in  Cork  Street,  Burlington  Gardens. 
The  house,  which  was  neat,  but  by  no  means  splendid, 
had  recently  been  fitted  up  for  the  reception  of  the  Coun- 
tess of  Derby,  on  her  separation  from  her  lord.  My  situ- 
ation now  every  hour  became  more  irksome.  The  Prince 
still  unkindly  persisted  in  withdrawing  himself  from  my 
society.  I  was  now  deeply  involved  in  debt,  which  I 
despaired  of  ever  having  the  power  to  discharge.  I  had 
quitted  both  my  husband  and  my  profession  ; — the  retro- 
spect was  dreadful ! 

"  My  estrangement  from  the  Prince  was  now  the  theme 
of  public  animadversion ;  while  the  newly  invigorated 
shafts  of  my  old  enemies,  the  daily  prints,  were  again 
hurled  upon  my  defenceless  head,  with  tenfold  fury.  The 
regrets  of  Mr.  Robinson,  now  that  he  had  lost  me,  became 
insupportable ; — he  constantly  wrote  to  me  in  the  language 
of  unbounded  affection  ;  nor  did  he  fail,  when  we  met,  to 
express  his  agony  at  our  separation,  and  even  a  wish  for 
our  re-union. 

"  I  had,  at  one  period,  resolved  on  returning  to  my  pro- 
fession ;  but  some  friends  whom  I  consulted  dreaded  that 
the  public  would  not  suffer  my  reappearance  on  the  stage. 
This  idea  intimidated  me,  and  precluded  my  efforts  for 
that  independence  of  which  my  romantic  credulity  had 
robbed  me.  I  was  fatally  induced  to  relinquish  what 
would  have  proved  an  ample  and  honorable  resource  for 
myself  and  my  child.  My  debts  accumulated  to  near  seven 


MRS.  ROBINSON. 


325 


thousand  pounds.  My  creditors,  whose  insulting  iliiber- 
ality  could  only  be  equaled  by  their  unbounded  impo- 
sitions, hourly  assailed  me. 

"I  was,  in  the  mean  time,  wholly  neglected  by  the 
Prince,  while  the  assiduities  of  Lord  Maiden  daily  in- 
creased. I  had  no  other  friend  on  whom  I  could  rely  for 
assistance  or  protection.  When  I  say  protection,  I  would 
not  be  understood  to  mean  pecuniary  assistance — Lord 
Maiden  being,  at  the  time  alluded  to,  even  poorer  than 
myself:  the  death  of  his  Lordship's  grandmother,  Lady 
Frances  Coningsby,  had  not  then  placed  him  above  the 
penury  of  his  own  small  income. 

"  Lord  Maiden's  attention  to  me  again  exposed  him  to 
all  the  humiliation  of  former  periods.  The  Prince  assured 
me  once  more  of  his  wishes  to  renew  our  former  friendship 
and  affection,  and  urged  me  to  meet  him  at  the  house  of 
Lord  Maiden  in  Clarges  Street.  I  was  at  this  period  little 
less  than  frantic,  deeply  involved  in  debt,  persecuted  by 
my  enemies,  and  perpetually  reproached  by  my  relations. 
I  would  joyfully  have  resigned  an  existence  now  become  to 
me  an  intolerable  burden  ;  yet  my  pride  was  not  less  than 
my  sorrow,  and  I  resolved,  whatever  my  heart  might  suffer, 
to  wear  a  placid  countenance  when  I  met  the  inquiring 
glances  of  my  triumphant  enemies. 

"  After  much  hesitation,  by  the  advice  of  Lord  Maiden, 
I  consented  to  meet  his  Royal  Highness.  He  accosted  me 
with  every  appearance  of  tender  attachment,  declaring  that 
he  had  never  for  one  moment  ceased  to  love  me — but,  that 
I  had  many  concealed  enemies,  who  were  exerting  every 
effort  to  undermine  me.  We  passed  some  hours  in  the 
most  friendly  and  delightful  conversation,  and  I  began  to 
flatter  myself  that  all  our  differences  were  adjusted.  But 
what  words  can  express  my  surprise  and  chagrin  when,  on 
meeting  his  Royal  Highness  the  very  next  day  in  Hyde  Park, 
28 


326  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

he  turned  his  head  to  avoid  seeing  me,  and  even  affected 
not  to  know  me  / 

"  Overwhelmed  by  this  blow,  my  distress  knew  no  limits. 
Yet  Heaven  can  witness  the  truth  of  my  assertion,  even  in 
this  moment  of  complete  despair,  when  oppression  bowed 
me  to  the  earth,  I  blamed  not  the  Prince.  I  did  then,  and 
ever  shall  consider  his  mind  as  nobly  and  honorably  organ- 
ized !  nor  could  I  teach  myself  to  believe  that  a  heart,  the 
seat  of  so  many  virtues,  could  possibly  become  inhuman 
and  unjust." 

There  was  some  "secret  history"  connected  with  this 
affair,  and  it  turned  out  that  the  sacrifice  of  the  unhappy 
lady  had  been  found  profitable  to  the  two  parties  which 
were  then  at  war — the  Court  and  the  Prince.  A  reconcilia- 
tion was  affected,  and  the  Prince  was  delighted  to  pay  a 
cheap  tribute  to  public  decorum  by  resigning  what  he  no 
longer  cared  to  keep,  and  receiving  as  his  reward  that 
"establishment,"  and  adjustment  which  had  formed  such 
a  brilliant  vista  in  the  poor  lady's  dreams.* 

Though  the  magnanimous  Prince  was  to  benefit  so  hand- 
somely by  his  sacrifice,  his  intention  apparently  was  that 
this  disagreeable  affair  should  be  closed  with  the  smallest 
expense  conceivable.  No  answer  was  given  to  the  lady's 
letters.  She  had  abandoned  her  profession,  and  had  been 
cast  off  by  her  husband.  Fortunately  she  held  a  bond  of 
her  royal  admirer's  for  twenty  thousand  pounds  payable  on 
his  "establishment."  All  such  august  securities  are  of 
little  value,  save  as  instruments  of  negotiation  and  com- 
promise— it  being  almost  impossible  to  enforce  their  pay- 
ment. Armed  with  this  document,  her  friends  now  inter- 
fered, and  after  much  discreditable  haggling  it  was  felt  that 
some  settlement  could  not  be  refused  with  decency.  Mr. 

*  See  Letters  of  George  the  Third  to  Lord  North. 


MRS.  ROBINSON. 


327 


Fox  undertook  the  office  of  arbitrator,  and  decided  that 
the  bond  should  be  given  up  in  consideration  of  an  annuity 
of  five  hundred  a  year.  Thus  prosaically  ended  the  history 
of  Florizel  and  Perdita. 

The  rest  of  her  life  offered  but  little  interest.  The  harsh 
treatment  she  had  met  with  excited  sympathy,  and  found 
her  some  friends  of  a  reputable  class.  She  was  privileged 
to  sustain  the  role  of  a  heroine  "  that  had  suffered" — and, 
owing  to  a  tone  then  fashionable  in  society  and  encouraged 
by  the  Press,  awakened  a  fresh  interest  by  becoming  a  dis- 
ciple of  the  sentimental  school  of  which  Mr.  Merry  was 
chief  professor.  This  taste  was  chiefly  manifested  in  feeble 
verses — known  as  "Poems" — which  were  thrown  off  on 
any  occasion  that  was  suitably  romantic.  Thus  it  was 
rumored  in  the  papers  that  in  the  winter  of  1790  "Mrs. 
Robinson  had  entered  into  a  poetical  correspondence  with 
Mr.  Robert  Merry  under  the  fictitious  names  of  '  Laura' 
and  '  Laura  Maria' — Mr.  Merry  assuming  the  title  of  '  Delia 
Crusca.'"  One  result  of  which  graceful  interchange  of 
sentiment  was  a  work  described  as  "  a  quarto  Poem" — and 
entitled  '  Ainsi  vale  Monde.'  It  contained  three  hundred 
and  fifty  lines,  yet  it  was  "written  in  twelve  hours,  as  a 
reply  to  Mr.  Merry's  l  Laurel  of  Liberty?  which  had  been 
sent  to  Mrs.  Robinson  on  a  Saturday:  on  the  Tuesday 
following  the  answer  was  composed  and  given  to  the  pub- 
lic."— The  subjects  that  inspired  her  muse  illustrate  very 
happily  the  character  of  the  "sentiment"  of  that  day  which 
is  scarcely  intelligible  to  our  own  generation.  In  such  soft 
communings  the  Sewards,  Pratts,  Hayleys,  and  others 
wasted  many  profitable  hours,  and  much  good  ink. 

The  heroine  did  not,  however,  content  herself  with  these 
dilettante  exercises,  and  it  is  to  be  feared  did  not  limit  her- 
self to  the  character  of  "a  fair  Platonist,"  as  the  news- 
papers of  her  day  might  have  styled  her.  She  repaired  to 


328  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

foreign  climes,  where  her  rather  frivolous  nature  was  grati- 
fied by  homage  and  attentions  of  a  more  doubtful  kind.* 

During  the  expedition  thus  alluded  to  she  entirely  lost 
the  use  of  her  limbs,  and  in  spite  of  every  remedy  re- 
mained almost  a  cripple  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  She  was 
but  twenty-four  when  this  affliction  befell  her.  She  tried 
the  baths  of  Aix-la-Chapelle,  where,  we  are  assured,  "  a 
dawn  of  comparative  tranquillity  soothed  her  spirits." 
Finding  all  these  attempts  useless,  she  resigned  herself  to 
what  she  was  obliged  to  endure — and  during  the  rest  of 
her  life  devoted  herself  to  what  was  called  "  literary  labor," 
i.e.,  to  the  composition  of  indescribably  vapid  "Poems" 
on  her  own  blighted  affections,  on  the  death  of  her  father 
and  mother,  and  which  her  biographer  moderately  com- 
mends as  "not  worse  than  other  effusions  of  the  same 
class."  A  long  course  of  ill  health  at  last  ended  in  dis- 
ease and  death.  She  wished  to  return  to  her  birthplace, 
and  die  there,  but  even  this  sad  solace  was  denied  to  her, 
from  a  want  of  the  pecuniary  means  for  its  execution.  In 
vain  she  applied  to  those  on  whom  honor,  humanity,  and 
justice  gave  her  undoubted  claims.  She  even  condescended 


*  Her  biographer,  approaching  this  part  of  her  career,  has  delicately  rel- 
egated to  a  note  what  really  ought  to  have  found  an  official  place  in  a  reg- 
ular account  of  her  life.  And  the  passage  h  worth  considering,  as  a  speci- 
men of  that  valet-like  style  in  which  it  was  then  customary  to  dwell  on  the 
trespasses  of  the  noble  and  the  fashionable.  "An  attachment  took  place 
between  Mrs.  Robinson  and  Colonel  Tarleton,  shortly  after  the  return  of 
the  latter  from  America,  which  subsisted  during  sixteen  years.  On  the  cir- 
cumstances which  occasioned  its  dissolution,  it  is  neither  necessary,  nor  would 
it  be  proper  to  dwell.  The  exertions  of  Mrs.  Robinson  in  the  service  of 
Col.  Tarleton,  when  pressed  by  pecuniary  embarrassment,  led  to  that  un- 
fortunate journey,  the  consequences  of  which  proved  so  fatal  to  her  health. 
The  Colonel  accompanied  her  to  the  Continent ;  and,  by  his  affectionate 
attentions,  sought  to  alleviate  those  sufferings  of  which  he  had  been  the 
involuntary  occasion. 


MXS.  KOBIXSOX. 


329 


to  entreat,  as  a  donation,  the  return  of  those  sums  granted 
as  a  loan  in  her  prosperity. 

The  following  is  a  copy  of  a  letter  addressed,  on  this 
occasion,  to  a  noble  debtor,  and  found  among  the  papers 
of  Mrs.  Robinson  after  her  decease  : — 

"  April  23, 1800. 

"  MY  LORD, — Pronounced  by  my  physicians  to  be  in  a 
rapid  decline,  I  trust  that  your  Lordship  will  have  the 
goodness  to  assist  me  with  a  part  of  the  sum  for  which  you 
are  indebted  to  me.  Without  your  aid  I  cannot  make 
trial  of  the  Bristol  waters,  the  only  remedy  that  presents  to 
me  any  hope  of  preserving  my  existence.  I  should  be  sorry 
to  die  at  enmity  with  any  person  ;  and  you  may  be  assured. 
my  dear  Lord,  that  I  bear  none  towards  you.  It  would  be 
useless  to  ask  you  to  call  on  me ;  but,  if  you  would  do  me 
that  honor,  I  should  be  happy,  very  happy,  to  see  you, 
being, 

"  My  dear  Lord,  yours  truly, 

"  MARY  ROBINSON." 

To  this  letter  no  answer  was  returned !  Further  com- 
ments are  unnecessary. 

"  Her  disorder  rapidly  drawing  towards  a  period,  the 
accumulation  of  water  upon  her  chest  every  moment  threat- 
ened suffocation.  For  nearly  fifteen  nights  and  days  she 
was  obliged  to  be  supported  upon  pillows,  or  in  the  arms 
of  her  young  and  affectionate  nurses.  Her  decease,  through 
this  period,  was  hourly  expected.  On  the  twenty-first  of 
December,  she  inquired  how  near  was  Christmas  Day. 
Being  answered,  Within  a  few  days — 'Yff,'  said  she,  'I 
shall  never  see  it.'  The  remainder  of  this  melancholy  day 
passed  in  indescribable  tortures.  Towards  midnight,  the 
sufferer  exclaimed,  'Oh  God,  oh  just  and  merciful  God, 
help  me  to  support  this  agony  !'  The  whole  of  the  ensuing 


330 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


day  she  continued  to  endure  great  anguish.  In  the  even- 
ing, a  kind  of  lethargic  stupor  came  on.  Miss  Robinson, 
approaching  the  pillow  of  her  expiring  mother,  earnestly 
conjured  her  to  speak  if  in  her  power.  '  My  darling  Mary  /' 
she  faintly  articulated,  and  spoke  no  more.  In  another 
hour  she  became  insensible  to  the  grief  of  those  by  whom 
she  was  surrounded,  and  breathed  her  last  at  a  quarter  past 
twelve  on  the  following  noon." 

Thus  ended  the  career  of  this  unhappy  lady.  In  harmony 
with  the  cynical  truth  of  the  unnoticed  appeal  to  the  noble 
lord  which  was  in  keeping  with  the  gracious  manners  of 
the  Prince's  Court,  is  Miss  Hawkins's  unsparing  sketch  : 
"  She  was  unquestionably  very  beautiful,  but  more  so  in 
the  face  than  in  the  figure ;  and  as  she  proceeded  in  her 
course  she  acquired  a  remarkable  facility  in  adapting  her 
deportment  to  her  dress.  When  she  was  to  be  seen  daily 
in  St.  James's  Street  or  Pall  Mall,  even  in  her  chariot, 
the  variation  was  striking.  To-day  she  was  a  paysanne, 
with  her  straw  hat  tied  at  the  back  of  her  head,  looking  as 
if  too  new  to  what  she  passed  to  know  what  she  looked  at. 
Yesterday,  perhaps,  she  had  been  the  dressed  belle  of  Hyde 
Park,  trimmed,  powdered,  patched,  painted  to  the  utmost 
power  of  rouge  and  white  lead ;  to-morrow  she  would  be 
the  cravated  Amazon  of  the  riding-house  ;  but  be  she  what 
she  might,  the  hats  of  the  fashionable  promenaders  swept 
the  ground  as  she  passed.  But  in  her  outset  '  the  style' 
was  a  high  phaeton,  in  which  she  was  driven  by  the  favored 
of  the  day.  Three  candidates  and  her  husband  were  out- 
riders :  and  this  in  the  face  of  the  congregations  turning 
out  of  places  of  worship.  .  .  .  About  the  year  1778  she 
appeared  on  the  stage,  and  gained,  from  the  character  in 
which  she  charmed,  the  name  of  Perdita.  She  then  started 
in  one  of  the  new  streets  of  Marylebone,  and  was  in  her 
altitude.  Afterwards,  when  a  little  in  the  wane,  she  resided 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE.  331 

under  protection  in  Berkeley  Square,  and  appeared  to 
guests  as  mistress  of  the  house  as  well  as  of  its  master. 
Her  manners  and  conversation  were  said  by  those  invited 
to  want  refinement.  ...  I  saw  her  on  one  day  handed  to 
her  outrageously  extravagant  vis-d-vis  by  a  man  whom  she 
pursued  with  a  doting  passion ;  all  was  still  externally  bril- 
liant ;  she  was  fine  and  fashionable  and  the  men  of  the  day 
in  Bond  Street  still  pirouetted  as  her  carriage  passed  them : 
the  next  day  the  vehicle  was  reclaimed  by  the  maker  ;  the 
Adonis  whom  she  courted  fled  her :  she  followed — all  to 
no  purpose.  She  then  took  up  a  new  life  in  London,  be- 
came literary.  .  .  .  What  was  the  next  glimpse  ?  On  a  table 
in  one  of  the  waiting-rooms  of  the  Opera  House  was  seated 
a  woman  of  fashionable  appearance,  still  beautiful,  '  but 
not  in  the  bloom  of  beauty's  pride ;'  she  was  not  noticed 
except  by  the  eye  of  pity.  In  a  few  minutes  two  liveried 
servants  came  to  her,  and  they  took  from  their  pockets 
long  white  sleeves,  which  they  drew  on  their  arms ;  they 
then  lifted  her  up  and  conveyed  her  to  her  carriage — it  was 
the  then  helpless,  paralytic  Pcrdita!" 


CHAPTER    XL 

GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE. 

GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE,*  in  spite  of  all  his  rude- 
ness and  irregularities,  is  a  figure  on  which  the  eye  rests 
with  a  curious  interest.  There  was  an  originality  and 
piquancy  in  the  various  bursts  of  his  extravagance  which 
was  quite  dramatic,  and  diverting  in  the  highest  degree : 

*  Bora  1756,  died  1812. 


332  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

so  much  so  that  the  sober  Cooke  is  almost  uninteresting 
compared  with  his  intoxicated  self.  In  that  condition  he 
became  grotesque,  brutal,  mock-heroic,  and  even  witty — 
his  sarcasm  was  withering,  so  that  the  victim  of  his  humor 
was,  from  self-respect,  compelled  to  deal  with  him  as  a 
sober  being.  Beside  this  odd  reputation,  his  theatrical 
character  seems  comparatively  tame  and  faded.  There  are 
grand  traditions  of  his  power  and  fierce  energies  in  such 
parts  as  Richard  and  Sir  Giles  Overreach,  and  his  genius 
seems  to  have  been  of  the  same  surging  and  tempestuous 
quality  as  Edmund  Kean's  ;  but  the  peculiar  features  of  his 
style  do  not  stand  out  very  distinctly.  All  the  adventures 
and  outbursts  of  "  GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE" — for  he  and 
his  friends  delighted  in  the  ring  of  these  words,  and  would 
not  have  abated  one  of  the  three  names — have  a  flavor  of 
their  own,  and  are  still  retailed  with  gout  by  old  actors. 
There  are  stories  of  his  quarrelsomeness,  of  his  sardonic 
raillery  when  in  his  cups,  and,  above  all,  of  his  moody 
jealousy  against  what  he  considered  the  "  priggish"  superi- 
ority of  Kemble,  whom  he  considered  his  inferior  in  genius, 
though  more  artful  and  decorous.  On  these  grounds, 
therefore,  because  he  was  a  thoroughly  genuine  character, 
recklessly  sacrificing  himself  sooner  than  pay  the  homage 
usually  offered  by  irregularity  to  decency,  he  really  stands 
apart  from  the  rest  of  his  profession,  a  Bohemian  as  it  is 
called,  and  a  not  unpicturesque  figure. 

This  bitterness,  combined  with  a  haughtiness  worthy  of 
a  Spanish  hidalgo,  might  have  received  some  indulgence, 
as  it  seems  to  have  been  founded  on  a  sense  of  humiliation 
and  the  consciousness  that  his  infirmities  had  placed  him 
below  men  to  whom  he  was  superior.  He  always  appeared 
to  feel  that  he  had  committed  his  reputation,  and  could 
not  hope  to  retrieve  himself:  and  therefore  took  refuge  in 
a  quarrelsome  sensitiveness,  which  was  yet  not  without  dig- 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE.  333 

nity.  A  history  might  almost  be  written  of  his  strange 
freaks  of  drunkenness,  and  in  such  a  record  a  special  study 
of  the  humors  of  George  Frederick  Cooke  would  have  to 
be  made.  The  sudden  turn  from  good-nature  and  affection 
to  hostility  was  the  most  familiar  shape  of  his  humor :  and 
in  this  mood  he  may  be  most  characteristically  introduced. 

"Mr.  Cooper,  the  American  tragedian,"  says  Mr. 
Mathews,  "  had  been  performing  a  series  of  characters  at 
Drury  Lane  Theatre ;  and  being  extremely  intimate  with 
Cooke,  it  occurred  to  him  that  his  performance  with  him 
in  '  Othello*  on  his  benefit  night  would  be  a  great  attrac- 
tion, if  Mr.  Harris's  permission  could  be  obtained.  Cooke, 
who,  in  his  natural  character,  was  one  of  the  kindest  of 
men,  instantly  undertook  to  apply  to  Mr.  Harris,  giving 
Cooper  some  hope  of  success. 

"Mr.  Harris  resided  at  this  period  at  Belmont,  near 
Uxbridge,  where  one  afternoon  Mr.  Cooke  was  announced. 
The  weather  was  intensely  severe,  and  the  visit  augured 
some  pressing  cause  ;  for  Cooke  seldom  called  but  to  make 
some  request,  generally  difficult  to  be  reconciled  or  granted. 
Still  on  the  present  occasion,  Mr.  Harris  was  '  very  happy 
to  see  Mr.  Cooke,'  and  '  hoped  he  came  to  stay  dinner;' 
which  hope  was  unnoticed  by  the  actor,  who  nervously 
proceeded  to  break  the  unreasonable  nature  of  his  visit, 
and  he  began  in  broken  accents  to  explain  his  errand  : 
'  My  dear  sir  ! — Cooper — the  best  creature  in  the  world — 
been  acting  at  Drury  Lane — going  to  take  a  benefit — 
Othello — lago — bring  him  a  great  house.  In  fine,  would 
Mr.  Harris  allow  him  (Cooke)  to  perform  the  character  of 
lago  for  his  friend  on  his  benefit  night?' 

"  Mr.  Harris  looked  very  blank  at  this  certainly  unfair 
demand  upon  his  self-interest.  He  shook  his  head  omin- 
ously, and  gravely  asked  Mr.  Cooke  whether  he  did  not 
think  it  rather  more  than  he  ought  to  grant,  considering 


334 


THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 


the  vast  importance  of  his  exclusive  services.  These  and 
other  arguments  were  mildly  but  determinately  combated 
by  Cooke  in  his  best  and  most  gentlemanlike  manner;  for 
'  Cooper,  the  best  creature  in  the  world,'  was  to  be  served; 
and  Mr.  Harris  being  at  length  overcome,  Cooke's  heart 
and  eyes  overflowed  with  generous  delight  and  gratitude 
for  the  power  thus  afforded  him  to  benefit  a  friend.  Mr. 
Harris  now  reminded  him  of  the  dinner ;  but  Cooke  de- 
clined the  invitation.  '  No — he  would  take  a  crust,  and 
one  glass  of  wine  to  warm  him,  and  then  return  to  town.' 
After  a  polite  struggle,  Mr.  Harris  yielded  to  his  visitor's 
determination;  and  a  tray  was  produced,  accompanied  by 
a  bottle  of  Madeira.  Of  this  Cooke  sipped  and  sipped 
with  the  most  imperturbable  self-complacency,  until  he 
nearly  finished  the  bottle;  when,  by  his  master's  order, 
the  butler  brought  in  another,  of  which  Cooke  had  swal- 
lowed a  few  glasses,  when  a  sudden  recollection  operated 
upon  his  mind,  as  Mr.  Harris  made  some  remark  upon 
the  increasing  severity  of  the  weather.  Cooke,  a  little 
'  warmed1  by  the  wine  he  had  taken,  now  bethought  him- 
self of  a  circumstance  which  his  fervor  for  his  friend's 
interest  and  the  Madeira  had  together  totally  obliterated 
for  the  time,  for  he  arose  abruptly,  and  taking  Mr.  Harris's 
hand,  broke  to  him  this  new  matter :  '  My  dear  sir,  your 
goodness  so  overpowered  all  other  recollections,  that  it 
made  me  entirely  forget  that  I  left  my  friend,  dear  Cooper, 
the  best  creature  in  the  world,  at  the  gate  when  I  came  in. 
Let  me  send  for  him,  to  thank  you  for  your  generous  per- 
mission in  his  favor.' 

"Mr.  Harris  was  in  much  distress,  and  in  spite  of 
Cooke's  assuring  him  that  'dear  Cooper'  would  not  mind 
it,  he  being  '  the  best  creature  in  the  world,'  rang  the  bell, 
and  desired  the  servant  to  request  Mr.  Cooper's  company 
within  doors.  By  this  time  the  Madeira  might  be  said  to 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE. 


335 


have  warmed  Mr.  Cooke  more  than  half  through ;  the 
second  bottle  was  rapidly  diminishing,  and  he  was  full  of 
feelings  generous  as  the  wine.  Again  and  again  he  clasped 
his  liberal  manager's  hands  in  thankfulness  for  his  kindness, 
reiterating,  '  My  dear  sir,  you're  too  good  to  me  S  I  can 
never  repay  such  friendly  treatment ;  I'm  bound  to  you 
eternally,'  &c.,  &c. 

"  Mr.  Harris  apologized  to  Mr.  Cooper,  and  explained 
the  cause  of  his  tardy  invitation,  placing  a  chair  for  him 
near  the  fire.  Cooke,  without  noticing  him,  continued  his 
maudlin  praise  of  his  host's  hospitality  and  goodness; 
afterwards  informing  Cooper  of  his  having  given  consent 
to  the  performance  in  question;  for  which  favor  Mr. 
Cooper  also  expressed,  as  well  as  his  shivering  state  would 
permit,  his  thanks,  and,  at  the  recommendation  of  Mr. 
Harris,  accepted  a  glass  of  Madeira,  in  order  to  thaw  his 
congealed  faculties.  Cooke  was  now  all  hilarity  and  hap- 
piness. Another  bottle  was  suggested,  and  promptly  sup- 
plied ;  and  immediately  the  servant  returned  to  announce 
the  dinner,  to  which  Mr.  Harris  again  pressed  Cooke  and  in- 
vited Cooper.  Mr.  Cooke,  however,  would  not  hear  of  it. 
He  must,  he  said,  return  to  town  to  dinner,  and  'dear 
Cooper*  must  accompany  him ;  and  he  insisted  upon  Mr. 
Harris  leaving  him  and  the  'best  creature  in  the  world' 
together  in  the  library,  where  they  would  take  'just  one  glass 
more,  and  then  depart.'  During  dinner,  Mr.  Harris  related 
the  occasion  of  Mr.  Cooke's  visit ;  and  in  the  course  of  the 
time,  happened  to  inquire  of  the  servants  whether  the  gen- 
tlemen were  gone.  He  was  answered  in  the  negative,  and 
informed  that  Mr.  Cooke  had  called  for  more  wine,  and 
that  Mr.  Cooper  had  vainly  pressed  him  to  depart.  At 
this  moment,  a  guest  inquired  whether  Mr.  Cooke  per- 
formed that  night,  which  question  made  Mr.  Harris  start 
from  his  chair  in  sudden  alarm,  exclaiming,  '  Is  this  Wed- 


336  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

nesday  ?  He  does  play  !  What  is  it  o'clock  ?'  at  the  same 
time  taking  out  his  watch  in  great  agitation,  he  exclaimed, 
'  Take  away  the  wine  ;  don't  let  him  drink  a  drop  more  ! 
He  must  go  away  directly,  or  I  shall  have  the  theatre  pulled 
down.  He  is  advertised  for  "  Richard  the  Third,"  and 
he  can  barely  get  back  in  time  to  dress  !' 

"  Back  rushed  the  agitated  proprietor  to  the  library, 
where  he  found  Cooper  using  every  argument  in  his  power 
to  dissuade  his  indiscreet  friend  from  drinking  any  more. 
But  Cooke  had  already  put  too  much  of  the  enemy  into  his 
mouth  not  to  be  completely  minus  of  brains,  and,  as  usual 
under  such  privation,  was  utterly  irrational  and  impersua- 
sible. 

"'Do  you  forget,'  urged  the  unfortunate  proprietor, 
'  that  this  is  a  play-night,  Mr.  Cooke?  Even  now  you  are 
expected  in  town.  I  entreat  you  will  go  without  further 
delay,  or  you  will  be  too  late.' 

"Cooke,  in  what  he  meant  to  be  a  most  insinuating 
tone  of  voice,  blessed  his  'excellent  friend  ;'  again  lauded 
his  liberality  and  kindness,  which  he  declared  could  never 
be  forgotten  or  repaid  by  the  devotion  of  his  whole  life, 
and  finally  begged  the  additional  favor  of  one  more  bottle 
of  his  Madeira  for  himself  and  'dear  Cooper,'  who,  he 
repeated  for  the  twentieth  time,  was  '  the  best  creature  in 
the  world.'  To  this  request  Mr.  Harris  gave  a  positive 
and  concise  negative,  placing  before  Mr.  Cooke's  view  the 
danger  he  was  hazarding  by  delay,  and  rendering  himself 
unfit  for  his  evening's  duty.  All  was  in  vain  ;  for  Cooke, 
though  equally  civil,  was  also  determined,  and  again  and 
again  coaxingly  urged  his  request  for  one  more  bottle.  At 
length,  finding  Mr.  Harris  inflexible,  the  Madeira  he  had 
drunk  began  to  proclaim  the  indignation  it  had  engendered 
in  Mr.  Cooke's  grateful  bosom;  and  as  the  liquor  fer- 
mented, it  raised  the  recipient  up  to  a  state  of  inflation 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE. 


337 


which  threatened  to  burst  all  bounds,  and  he  now  assailed 
his  host  with  the  most  opprobrious  epithets ;  so  that  event- 
ually, by  the  potency  of  'the  drink,'  his  late  'excellent 
friend,'  Mr.  Harris,  was  converted  into  a  'vulgar,  old, 
soap-boiling  scoundrel,'  who  did  not  know  how  treat  a 
gentleman  when  one  condescended  to  visit  him ;  and  Mr. 
Harris  was  imperiously  asked,  '  Do  you  know  who  I  am, 
sir?  Am  I  not  George  Frederick  Cooke  ? — without  whose 
talents- you  would  be  confined  to  your  own  grease-tub ;  and 
who  will  never  more  darken  your  inhospitable  doors  while 
he  lives,  nor  uphold  your  contemptible  theatre  any  longer 
after  this  night !'  And  with  many  other  threats  and  deli- 
cate innuendoes  in  relation  to  Mr.  Harris's  soap-boiling 
pursuits  not  herein  set  down,  he  staggered  out  of  the  room 
with  the  assistance  of  the  'best  creature  in  the  world,' 
whom  he  now  distinguished  by  every  ill  name  that  drunk- 
enness could  remember  or  invent,  for  daring  to  direct  or  con- 
trol him,  George  Frederick  Cooke  !  when  the  great  tragedian 
reeled  into  the  attendant  chaise,  and  was  driven  to  town 
with  his  grieved  and  much-abused  friend,  'dear  Cooper!' 

"That  night  the  audience  did  not  mistake  'the  drunkard 
for  a  god,'  for  the  great  '  George  Frederick  Cooke'  was 
hissed  off  the  stage,  and  obliged  to  leave  his  performance 
unfinished  ;  and  it  was  some  time  ere  '  Richard  was  himself 
again.'  " 

The  result  of  such  afternoon  excesses  was  that  most  de- 
grading of  all  spectacles,  the  exhibition  of  an  actor  on  the 
stage,  who  is  scarcely  able  to  articulate  or  indeed  to  sup- 
port himself.  The  curious  contrast  between  what  a  vast 
audience  comes  to  witness — intellect  in  its  highest  and 
most  finished  development,  and  what  is  presented,  viz., 
intellect  in  its  lowest  and  most  bestial  condition,  produces 
a  sort  of  surprise  and  disgust  which  is  almost  dramatic. 
The  ordinary  victims  of  this  failing  may  at  least  shrink 
p  29 


338  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

from  the  public  gaze,  but  it  is  an  additional  penalty  for  the 
actor  of  talent  who  is  thus  afflicted  that,  in  spite  of  all  his 
efforts  his  halting  figure,  his  thick  and  rambling  speeches 
must  betray  to  the  crowd  that  he  is  unfit  to  appear  before 
them,  and  that  he  is  only  insulting  them  by  his  incoherent 
attempts.  Silence  and  perhaps  pity  may  accept  such  lapses, 
but  presently  comes  indignation,  contempt,  and  open  jeer- 
ing :  while  the  less  reputable  part  of  the  audience  welcomes 
the  exhibition  as  the  most  amusing  part  of  the  performance. 
What  a  picture  of  degradation  is  conveyed  by  the  following 
scene : 

On  one  occasion,  having  vainly  attempted  to  recall  the 
beginning  of  Richard's  first  speech,  he  tottered  forward 
with  a  cunning  and  maudlin  intent  to  divert  the  resentment 
of  the  audience  into  a  false  channel :  and  laying  his  hand 
impressively  upon  his  chest  to  insinuate  that  illness  was  the 
only  cause  of  his  failure,  he  with  upturned  mournful  eyes 
solicited  the  sympathies  of  his  audience  and  hiccupped  out 
— "My  old  complaint  !"  A  storm  of  hisses  mingled  with 
derisive  merriment  drove  him  off  the  stage. 

Yet,  as  it  must  be  owned,  there  was  always  a  certain 
tragic  dignity  about  his  fits,  which  almost  awed.  Thus 
when  he  had  been  staggering  about  the  Liverpool  stage, 
scarcely  able  to  articulate,  a  burst  of  hisses  restored  him  to 
some  coherence.  He  turned  at  bay  and  awed  them  with 
his  fierce  eyes. 

"  What !  do  you  hiss  me — me,  George  Frederick  Cooke? 
You  contemptible  money-getters.  You  shall  never  again  have 
the  honor  of  hissing  me  !  Farewell,  I  banish  you."  Then 
after  a  pause  added,  "  There1  s  not  a  brick  in  your  dirty  town 
but  what  is  cemented  by  the  blood  of  a  negro. ' '  They  were 
cowed  by  this  savage  rebuke,  and  it  must  be  said  there  is  a 
certain  rude  grandeur  in  the  rebuke.  There  is  another 
scene  that  is  really  piquant,  which  exhibits  him  in  his  most 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE. 


339 


characteristic  mood.  He  bad  been  invited  by  a  theatrical 
architect  to  dine,  who  was  at  a  loss  for  a  suitable  person  to 
invite  to  meet  him.  At  last  he  pitched  upon  Mr.  Brandon, 
the  well-known  manager  of  the  front  of  the  house  at 
Covent  Garden.  The  party  was  pleasant,  bat  as  usual  Mr. 
Cooke  began  to  drink  deep,  and  gave  promise  of  sitting  on 
until  far  into  the  morning.  The  host,  anxious  to  be  rid 
of  him  before  his  dangerous  mood  came,  dismissed  him  in 
plain  terms,  and  took  a  candle  to  light  him  downstairs. 
When  they  were  at  the  door  the  tragedian,  who  had  accepted 
his  conge  in  silence,  suddenly  seized  his  host  tj  his  ears, 
and  shouted  disdainfully,  "Have  I,  George  Frederick 
Cooke,  degraded  myself  by  dining  with  bricklayers  to  meet 
box-keepers!"  and  flinging  him  to  the  grouad  took  his 
departure. 

This  strange  being  had  married  a  lady  of  the  name  of 
Miss  Daniells,  and,  it  may  be  conceived,  the  lady  led  a 
troubled  life.  It  was  natural  that  his  drunken  humors,  as 
regards  her,  should  take  die  shape  of  ferocious  jealousy, 
under  which  influence  he  at  last  locked  her  uo  in  a  high 
garret,  and,  taking  the  key  with  him,  went  off  on  one  of 
his  long  debauches.  He  forgot  all  about  her,  and  the  poor 
woman  was  nearly  starved.  Her  cries  at  last  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  street,  and  she  was  released  by  means  of  a 
ladder.  On  this  treatment  she  procured  a  separation. 

There  is  another  story  also  significant  of  that  almost 
ferocious  character  which,  as  it  were,  lay  concealed  behind 
his  nature  until  called  into  being  by  dr  nk.  When  drinking 
at  some  low  tavern  he  had  got  into  a  quarrel  with  a  soldier, 
and  insisted  that  his  antagonise  sh>j-d  fight  him.  The 
fellow  made  some  excuses — am:>ng  others  that  Cooke  was 
a  rich  man,  and  had  the  advantage  of  him.  Cooke  pulled 
out  a  bundle  of  notes  from  his  pocket,  flung  them  on  the 
fire,  and  kept  them  there  with  the  poker  until  consumed  ; 


340 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


and,  after  they  were  consumed,  said,  "There  goes  every 
penny  I  have  in  the  world.  Now,  sir,  you  shall  fight  me  !" 

The  late  Mr.  Mathews  used  to  describe  an  amusing  even- 
ing which,  when  a  beginner,  he  was  privileged  to  spend 
with  the  great  tragedian.  The  latter  invited  the  novice 
into  his  room  to  supper.  This  was  irresistible ;  and  the 
invitation  was  promptly  accepted. 

"During  the  early  part  of  the  night  the  host  was  a  most 
charming  companion.  He  feelingly  entered  into  the  young 
man's  (Charles  Mathews)  embarrassing  situation,  and  of- 
fered to  frank  him  home  if  he  would  consent  to  return  to 
his  respectable  family,  and  give  up  the  uncertain  result  of 
the  trial  he  was  making  as  an  actor,  but  without  any  effect 
upon  the  aspiring  candidate  for  dramatic  fame. 

"  After  supper,  whisky  punch,  which  was  a  novelty  to 
Cooke,  who  had  never  before  been  in  Ireland,  was  intro- 
duced, and  he  evidently  was  quite  fascinated  with  the 
pleasing  beverage.  He  grew  gradually  more  animated  in 
its  praise ;  declared,  as  he  sipped  and  sipped,  that  there 
was  nothing  like  it !  it  was  the  nectar  of  the  gods !  His 
spirits  increased  in  animation  ;  and  jug  after  jug  was 
brought  in.  The  young  man  had^very  early  cried,  '  Hold  ! 
enough  !'  Cooke,  however,  knew  not  satiety  when  once  the 
brimming  cup  had  been  emptied.  Mrs.  Byrne,  the  land- 
lady, up  to  a  certain  time,  felt  bound,  both  by  duty  and 
interest,  to  supply  her  distinguished  lodger  with  what  he 
called  for ;  but  at  last,  the  night  growing  old,  and  her  eyes 
not  growing  young,  she  felt  disposed  to  give  them  rest;  and, 
entering  with  the  sixth  jug,  inquired  respectfully,  '  whether 
Mister  Cooke  would  want  anything  more  ?'  At  this  mo- 
ment her  lodger  was  warmed  up  into  the  most  contented 
of  beings.  He  glanced  at  the  capacious  vessel  just  replaced 
upon  his  table,  and,  believing  its  contents  sufficient,  ex- 
claimed, '  Nothing  more,  my  good  Mrs.  Byrne,  nothing 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE.  :_: 

more.'  Mrs.  Byrne  wished  her  two  lodgers  a  good-night, 
and  retired.  Cooke  refilled  his  glass,  and  being  somewhat 
sentimental,  advised — admonished  his  young  friend ;  above 
all,  cautioned  him  to  be  industrious  in  his  profession,  sober 
in  private,  and  not  to  allow  company, — '  villainous  com- 
pany,'— to  be  the  ruin  of  his  youth.  And  thus  he  lectured 
on  sobriety,  till  glass  after  glass  vanished,  and  with  it  the 
reality  of  the  virtue  he  so  eloquently  recommended.  At  last 
the  jug  was  again  empty.  Mr.  Mathews  rose  to  go.  '  You 
sha'n't  stir;  we'll  have  another  croeskcn  Aram,  my  dear 
fellow,  and  then  yon  shall  go  to  bed.  I  have  much  more 
to  say  to  you,  my  good  boy.  Sit  down.  You  don't  know 
me.  The  world  don't  know  me.  Many  an  hour  that  they 
suppose  I  have  wasted  in  drinking,  I  have  devoted  to  the 
study  of  my  profession ; — the  Passions  and  all  their  varia- 
tions; their  nice  and  imperceptible  gradations.  You  shall 
see  me  delineate  the  Passions  of  the  human  mind.' 

"The  power  of  the  whisky  punch,  however,  acted  in 
diametric  opposition  to  the  intent  on  his  strong  and  flexi- 
ble features,  and  only  produced  contortions  and  distortions, 
of  which  he  was  unconscious.  He,  nevertheless,  endeav- 
ored to  illustrate  the  passions,  while  his  visitor  was  to 
guess  them.  'What's  the  meaning  of  that,  eh?1  said  the 
tragedian,  with  a  most  inexplicable  twist  of  his  face. 
'Sir!'  said  the  timid  spectator,  puzzled  what  to  call  it. 
Cooke  reiterated  'What's  the  meaning  of  tkatf  What 
passion  does  it  express?  Does  it  not  strike  you  at  once? 
There!  What's  that?*  While  he  to  whom  he  appealed 
could  only  say,  «  Fiery  jut,  sir!'—'  Bat,'  persisted  Cooke, 
'  what  if  it  ?*  He  was  then  answered,  *  Oh  *  I  see.  sir : 
Anger  I  to  be  sure !' — '  To  bi  sure  you're  a  blockhead  !' 
said  Cooke,  showing  him  the  genuine  expression  of  what 
he  imputed  to  him  before.  '  Fear,  sir '.  it  was  Fear .' 
Now,  then— what  is  OiMtf— 'Oh,  sir,  Aat,  I  think,  is 


342  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

meant  for  Je almi sy. '  Again  the  passionate  man  declared 
that  the  guesser  was  wrong.  '  Jealousy  /  Pooh,  man  ! 
Sympathy  !  You're  very  dull,  sir. — Now  I  will  express  a 
passion  that  you  can't  mistake.  There!  what's  that? 
Look  again,  sir!'  he  exclaimed,  in  a  terrific  voice;  and 
he  then  made  up  a  hideous  face,  compounded  of  malignity 
and  the  leering  of  a  drunken  satyr,  which  he  insisted  upon 
being  guessed ;  and  his  visitor,  trembling  for  the  conse- 
quences of  another  mistake,  hesitatingly  pronounced  it  to 
be,  'Revenge? — '  Despite  o'erwhelm  thee  !'  cried  Cooke, 
in  his  most  tragic  rage.  '  Revenge  !  Curse  your  stupid- 
ity !  That  was  Love  !  Love,  you  insensible  idiot !  Can't 
you  see  it  is  Love  ?'  Here  he  attempted  the  same  expres- 
sion, in  order  to  strike  conviction  of  its  truth ;  when  a 
mixture  of  comicality  with  the  first  effect  so  surprised  the 
risible  muscles  of  the  young  man,  that  he  laughed  outright. 
This  infuriated  the  delineator  of  the  Passions  almost  to 
madness.  'What,  sir!  does  it  make  you  laugh?  Am  I 
not  George  Frederick  Cooke?  born  to  command  ten 
thousand  slaves  like  thee  !  while  you'll  never  get  salt  to 
your  porridge,  as  an  actor.  Who  am  7,  sir?' — curving 
his  arms  just  as  if  preparing  to  make  a  minuet  bow  (his 
well-known  attitude  when  dignified"). 

"  '  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir  ;  the  whisky  punch  has  stupefied 
me.'  Cooke  accepted  the  excuse.  'True,  true,  'tis  ouf 
(his  guest  wished  he  was  out  too).  '  Mistress  Byrne,  my 
love,  another  jug !'  At  this  his  companion  made  an 
attempt  to  go  away,  when  he  was  forcibly  dragged  back 
with  '  Stir  not,  on  your  life  !  The  man  that  stirs  makes 
me  his  foe.  Another  jug,  sweet  Mrs.  Byrne  !'  Mrs.  Byrne, 
it  appeared,  slept  in  the  room  under  which  this  scene  oc- 
curred ;  so  that  whenever  Mr.  Cooke  addressed  her  he 
looked  down  upon  the  floor,  as  if  more  certain  of  his  wishes 
reaching  her,  at  the  same  time  tapping  with  his  foot. 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE. 


343 


"  '  Mistress  Byrne,  my  darling,  another  jug,  sweet  Mrs. 
Byrne  !'  which  she  answered  in  tones  quite  audible  through 
the  slightly-built  ceiling. 

" '  Indeed,  Mr.  Cooke,  and  I'm  gone  to  bed,  sure,  and 
you  can't  have  any  more  to-night.' 

"  Cooke  (breaking  the  jug  over  her  head). — '  Do  you  hear 
that,  Mistress  Byrne?' 

"  Mrs.  B. — '  Indeed  and  I  do,  Mr.  Cooke,  sure  enough  !' 

"  Cooke  (throwing  in  turns  chairs,  poker,  tongs,  and 
shovel  down  with  a  clash). — '  Do  you  hear  that,  Mistress 
Byrne?' 

"  Mrs.  .#.— 'God  knows  and  I  do,  Mr.  Cooke.' 

"  Mr.  Cooke  then  began  to  throw  the  fragments  he  had 
made  out  of  the  window.  The  young  man,  apprehensive 
lest  he  might  force  him  to  make  his  exit  after  the  damaged 
furniture,  made  another  bold  attempt  to  decamp.  '  Stay 
where  you  are,'  roared  the  now  frenzied  Cooke,  grasping 
him  violently.  '  I  will  go,'  said  the  now  determined  youth. 
'Will  you?'  said  Cooke.  He  then  dragged  his  victim  to 
the  window,  and  roared  out,  '  Watch  !  Watch  !'  A  watch- 
man, who  had  been  already  attracted  by  the  clatter  amongst 
the  movables,  asked  the  cause  of  the  disturbance ;  when,  to 
the  horror  of  his  struggling  prisoner,  Cooke  exclaimed,  '  I 
give  this  man  in  charge ;  he  has  committed  a  capital  offence 
— he  has  committed  a  murder.'  *  I !'  said  his  amazed  com- 
panion. '  Yes,'  said  Cooke  to  the  watchman,  '  to  my  cer- 
tain knowledge  he  has  been  this  night  guilty  of  a  cruel, 
atrocious  murder  in  cold  blood.  He  has  most  barbarously 
murdered  an  inoffensive  Jew-gentleman,  of  the  name  of 
Mordeana,  and  I  charge  him  with  it  in  the  name  of  Mack- 
lin,  author  of  "  Love  a  la  Mode."  '  At  this  moment  the 
supposed  criminal  slipped  out  of  his  grasp,  and  made  for 
the  door.  Cooke  followed  him,  and  taking  up  the  candle* 
ran  on  the  staircase  with  them,  crying  out,  as  he  threw 


344  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

them  and  the  candlesticks  after  him,  '  Well,  if  you  will  go, 
you  sha'n't  say  I  sent  you  to  bed  without  light !'  But  the 
young  man  reached  his  room,  and,  securely  fastened  in, 
he  heard  a  long  colloquy  between  the  watchman  and  the 
tragedian,  who  had  some  trouble  in  explaining  away  the 
account  he  had  given  to  him  of  the  murdered  '  Jew-gentle- 
man.' " 

But  the  story  of  his  wild  escapades  darkens  after  his 
strange  elopement  to  America  in  1810,  where  he  crowded 
into  the  space  of  a  few  weeks  more  violent  eccentricity  than 
he  had  ever  exhibited  during  many  years  of  his  extravagant 
life.  He  was  at  the  time  engaged  at  Covent  Garden,  and 
the  mysterious  manner  in  which  he  was,  as  it  were,  smug- 
gled out  of  England,  with  nightly  journeyings  in  post 
chaises,  secret  embarkation,  &c.,  was  highly  melodramatic. 
The  real  cause  of  the  mystery  was  the  uncertain  humor  of 
this  singular  being,  whose  nearest  approach  to  a  rational 
mood  was  a  sort  of  gloomy  torpor  in  the  interval  between 
his  debauches.  The  rude  fare  and  hardships  of  the  voyage 
had  the  best  effect  on  his  health,  and  he  arrived  in  the 
country,  which  he  was  destined  never  to  leave,  compara- 
tively a  new  man. 

His  appearance  at  New  York  attracted  what  was  con- 
sidered the  greatest  house  ever  known  in  America.  The 
effect  of  his  great  acting  was  prodigious.  But  after  a  few 
nights  he  began  to  yield  to  his  old  habits. 

"During  the  time  that  had  elapsed  since  his  landing, 
Mr.  Cooke  had  been  gradually  giving  way  more  and  more 
to  his  old  enemy.  His  want  of  self-restraint  had  rendered 
it  necessary  to  cease  those  invitations  to  dinner-parties 
which  curiosity,  and  a  desire  to  distinguish  his  talents, 
would  otherwise  have  made  incessant.  But  every  night 
after  acting  was  devoted  to  indulgence,  and  the  consequent 
deplorable  state  sometimes  extended  to  depriving  him  of 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE. 


345 


voice  on  the  following  night  of  playing ;  but  heretofore  he 
had  not  exposed  himself  palpably  to  the  public. 

"  After  playing  Sir  Giles,  he  indulged  himself  as  usual, 
but  became  unusually  offensive  in  words  and  manner,  as 
his  unhappy  madness  increased ;  and  at  length,  at  variance 
with  himself  and  his  host,  he  retired  sullenly  to  his  cham- 
ber, and,  as  was  frequent  with  him,  sat  up  all  night.  In 
the  morning,  he  went  to  bed.  About  noon  he  arose  and 
leaving  an  excuse  with  the  servant  for  not  dining  at  home, 
went  out  without  having  seen  any  other  part  of  the  family. 

"  He  rambled  about  the  suburbs  of  the  city  in  his  solitary 
manner,  for  some  hours,  and  then  directed  his  steps  to  the 
Tontine  Coffee  House,  the  place  at  which  he  lodged  upon 
his  landing.  Here  he  dined,  and  repeated  his  maddening 
draughts,  till  late  at  night,  or  in  the  morning,  he  again 
sunk  to  rest ;  if  sinking  to  partial  oblivion,  overwhelmed 
by  intemperance,  deserves  that  quiet  appellation.  .  .  . 

"The  ipth  December  had  been  appointed  for  his 
benefit.  '  Cato'  was  the  play.  The  bills  announced  the 
last  night  of  Mr.  Cooke's  engagement  previous  to  his  pro- 
ceeding to  Boston  ;  the  tragedy  of  *  Cato'  and  the  farce  of 
'  Love  a  la  Mode,'  for  Mr.  Cooke's  benefit.  The  rehear- 
sals of  '  Cato'  had  been  called,  but  the  tragedy  of  '  Cato' 
was  rehearsed  without  the  presence  of  the  hero.  Cooke 
looked  into  the  theatre  on  his  way  from  the  Coffee  House 
to  the  manager's,  and  asked  the  prompter  if  *  all  was  well.' 
His  appearance  indicated  too  strongly  that  all  was  not  well 
with  him.  He  came  into  the  green-room,  and  hearing  the 
call-boy  call,  as  usual,  the  performers  to  come  to  the  stage, 
by  the  names  of  the  characters  they  were  to  represent — 
Juba — Syphax — Cato — he  beckoned  the  boy  to  him. 

"'My  good  lad,  don't  you  know  it's  a  benefit?  we'll 
rehearse  the  play  to-night.'  .  .  . 

"  He  then  proceeded  with  the  intent  of  removing  his 
p* 


346  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

trunks  to  the  Coffee  House.  Fortunately  for  him,  a  friend 
prevented  him  from  carrying  this  design  into  execution, 
and  upon  being  assured  that  no  notice  would  be  taken  of 
his  conduct,  he  gladly  relinquished  his  plan,  and  dismissed 
the  images  of  resentful  enmity  which  he  had  conjured  up 
to  stimulate  him  to  the  act. 

"  In  the  mean  time  he  had  never  read  a  line  of  Cato,  and 
he  was  now  incapable  of  reading  to  any  purpose.  The 
house  filled.  An  audience  so  numerous  or  more  genteel, 
had  never  graced  the  walls  of  the  New  York  theatre.  The 
money  received  was  eighteen  hundred  and  seventy-eight 
dollars. 

"Soon,  very  soon,  it  was  perceived  that  the  Roman  pa- 
triot, the  godlike  Cato,  was  not  to  be  seen  in  Mr.  Cooke. 
The  mind  of  the  actor  was  utterly  bewildered  ;  he  hesitated, 
repeated  substituted  speeches  from  other  plays,  or  endeav- 
ored to  substitute  incoherencies  of  his  own — but  his  playing 
extempore  was  not  so  amusing  as  Sir  John's — the  audience 
which  had  assembled  to  admire,  turned  away  with  disgust. 

"  After  the  play,  I  walked  into  the  green-room.  He  was 
dressed  for  Sir  Archy  M' Sarcasm.  As  soon  as  he  saw  me, 
he  came  up  to  meet  me,  and  exclaimed,  'Ah,  it's  all  over 
now,  we  are  reconciled — but  I  was  very  wild  in  the  play — 
quite  bewildered — do  you  know  that  I  could  not  remember 
one  line,  after  having  recited  the  other — I  caught  myself 
once  or  twice  giving  Shakespeare  for  Addison ;'  and  then 
with  his  chuckle  and  his  eyes  turned  away,  '  Heaven  forgive 
me ! — If  you  have  ever  heard  anything  of  me,  you  must 
have  heard  that  I  always  have  a  frolic  on  my  benefit  day. 
If  a  man  cannot  take  a  liberty  with  his  friends,  who  the 
devil  can  he  take  a  liberty  with  ?' 

"  By  the  time  the  curtain  drew  up  for  the  farce,  he  was 
so  far  recovered,  that  the  words,  being  perfectly  familiar, 
came  trippingly  from  the  tongue,  and  he  being  encouraged 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE.  347 

by  finding  himself  in  possession  of  his  powers  again,  ex- 
erted them  to  the  utmost,  and  played  Sir  Archy  as  well  as 
ever  he  had  done. 

"  He  had  played  in  New  York  seventeen  night?,  and  the 
amount  of  money  received  by  the  manager  was  twenty-one 
thousand  five  hundred  and  seventy-eight  dollars.  Mak  i  n  g  an 
average  of  1269^5  dollars  for  each  night. 

"  I  had  been  told  frequently  of  his  asserting  over  the 
bottle,  or  under  its  influence,  that  he  had  been  in  America 
during  our  revolutionary  contest,  naming  particularly  the 
regiment  he  belonged  to,  speaking  of  various  actions  in 
which  he  had  fought  for  his  royal  master,  and  discomfited 
and  slaughtered  the  rebels ;  particularly  one  day  when 
walking  on  our  beautiful  promenade,  'the  batter}",'  and 
viewing  the  objects  which  adorn  and  surround  one  of  the 
finest  bays  in  the  world,  he  called  Mr.  Price's  attention  to 
the  heights  of  Brooklyn,  and  pointing,  exclaimed  : 

"  '  That's  the  spot !  we  marched  up  !  the  rebels  retreated  ! 
we  charged  !  they  fled  !  we  mounted  that  hill — I  carried  the 
colors  of  the  5th,  my  father  carried  them  before  me,  and 
my  son  now  carries  them — I  led — Washington  was  in  the 
rear  of  the  rebels — I  pressed  forward — when  at  this  mo- 
ment, Sir  William  Howe,  now  Lord  Howe,  and  the  Lord 
forever  d — n  him  for  it,  cried  halt ! — but  for  that,  sir,  I 
should  have  taken  Washington,  and  there  would  have  been 
an  end  to  the  rebellion  !' 

"  Notwithstanding  his  frequent  recurrence  to  these  rhodo- 
montades,  I  had  never  heard  him,  until  the  day  he  embarked 
for  Rhode  Island,  on  his  way  to  Boston,  say  anything  which 
approached  the  subject.  This  morning  in  Broadway,  on 
his  road  to  the  packet,  he  exclaimed,  'This  is  Broadway  ! 
This  is  the  street  through  which  Sir  Henry  Clinton  used  to 
gallop  every  day,  full  tilt !  helter  skelter  !  and  his  aids  after 
him,  as  if  the  cry  was,  the  devil  take  the  hindmost !' 


348 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


11 1  could  not  but  be  struck  by  this  description  of  what 
I  had  so  often  seen  when  a  boy  ;  and  though  Mr.  Cooke 
might  have  had  this  circumstance  from  various  sources,  he 
spoke  so  much  like  one  describing  what  he  had  seen,  that 
an  impression  was  made  upon  my  mind  which  the  twenty 
months'  hiatus  in  his  chronicle  revived  in  a  very  forcible 
manner. 

"  On  the  6th  he  played  Pierre  to  368  dollars.  This  was 
a  falling  off  indeed.  He  was  next  advertised  for  the  favor- 
ite Sir  Pertinax,  but  in  vain  ;  the  amount  was  only  457 
dollars  on  the  8th. 

"That  this  failure  of  attraction  sank  deep  into  his 
wounded  spirit,  I  had  an  opportunity  afterwards  of  know- 
ing. Of  fortitude  he  had  none :  he  sought  oblivion  in 
madness.  .  .  . 

"  About  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning  of  the  ipth  of  Feb- 
ruary, 1811,  after  one  of  the  most  inclement  nights  of  one 
of  the  coldest  of  our  winters,  when  our  streets  were  choked 
with  ice  and  snow,  a  little  girl  came  to  the  manager's  office 
at  the  theatre  with  a  note  scarcely  legible,  running  thus : 

"  '  Dear  Dunlap,  send  me  one  hundred  dollars.  G.  F. 
COOKE.' 

"  I  asked  the  child  of  whom  she  got  the  paper  she  had 
given  me. 

"  '  Of  the  gentleman,  sir.' 

'"Where  is  he?' 

'"At  our  house.' 

"  '  Where  is  that  ?' 

"  '  In  Reed  Street,  behind  the  Hospital.' 

"  '  When  did  this  gentleman  come  to  your  house?' 

"  'Last  night,  sir,  almost  morning — mother  is  sick,  sir, 
and  I  was  sitting  up  with  her,  and  a  negro  and  a  watchman 
brought  the  gentleman  to  our  house  and  knocked,  and  we 
knew  the  watchman ;  and  so  mother  let  the  gentleman 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE. 


349 


come  in  and  sit  by  the  fire.  He  didn't  want  to  come  in 
at  first,  but  said  when  he  was  at  the  door,  "Let  me  lay 
down  here  and  die."  ' 

"  Mr.  Price  came  to  the  theatre,  and  I  learned  from  him 
that  Cooke  having  sat  up  late  and  become  turbulent,  to  the 
annoyance  of  the  family,  he  had  insisted  upon  his  going 
to  bed,  and  he  had  apparently  complied ;  but  that  when 
the  household  were  all  at  rest,  he  had  come  down  from  his 
chamber,  unlocked  the  street-door,  and  sallied  out  in  the 
face  of  a  west  wind  of  more  than  Russian  coldness.  After 
consulting  with  Mr.  Price,  and  showing  the  paper  brought 
by  the  girl,  I  put  one  hundred  dollars  in  small  bank-notes 
in  my  pocket,  and  taking  the  messenger  as  my  pilot,  went 
in  quest  of  George  Frederick. 

"  As  we  walked,  I  asked  my  conductress  what  the  gen- 
tleman had  been  doing  since  he  came  to  her  mother's 
house. 

"  '  Sitting  by  the  fire,  sir,  and  talking.' 

"  '  Has  he  had  anything  to  drink?' 

"  '  Yes,  sir ;  he  sent  the  negro  man  out  for  brandy,  and 
he  brought  two  quarts. — Poor  old  gentleman,'  she  con- 
tinued, '  the  people  at  the  house  where  he  lived  must  have 
used  him  very  ill,  and  it  was  very  cruel  to  turn  him  out  o' 
doors  such  a  night.'1 

"  '  Does  he  say  he  was  turned  out  o'  doors?' 

"  'Yes,  sir, — he  talks  a  great  deal — to  be  sure  I  believe 
he  is  crazy.' 

"We  entered  a  small  wooden  building  in  Reed  Street. 
The  room  was  dark,  and  appeared  the  more  so,  owing  to 
the  transition  from  the  glare  of  snow  in  the  street.  I  saw 
nothing  distinctly  for  the  first  moment,  and  only  perceived 
that  the  place  was  full  of  people.  I  soon  found  that  they 
were  the  neighbors,  brought  in  to  gaze  at  the  strange,  crazy 
gentleman  :  and  the  sheriffs  officers  distraining  for  the 
30 


350  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

rent  on  the  furniture  of  the  sick  widow  who  occupied  the 
house. 

"The  bed  of  the  sick  woman  filled  one  corner  of  the 
room,  surrounded  by  curtains — sheriff's  officers,  a  table, 
with  pen,  ink,  and  inventory,  occupied  another  portion — 
a  motley  group,  of  whom  Cooke  was  one,  hid  the  fire-place 
from  view,  and  the  remainder  of  the  apartment  was  filled 
by  cartmen,  watchmen,  women,  and  children. 

"  When  I  recognized  Cooke,  he  had  turned  from  the 
fire,  and  his  eye  was  on  me  with  an  expression  of  shame 
and  chagrin  at  being  found  in  such  a  situation.  His  skin 
and  eyes  were  red,  his  linen  dirty,  his  hair  wildly  pointing 
in  every  direction  from  his  'distracted  globe,'  and  over 
his  knee  was  spread  an  infant's  bib,  or  something  else,  with 
which,  having  lost  his  pocket  handkerchief,  he  wiped  his 
incessantly  moistened  visage.  After  a  wild  stare  at  me,  he 
changed  from  the  first  expression  of  his  countenance,  and 
welcomed  me.  He  asked  me  why  I  had  come.  I  replied, 
that  I  had  received  his  note,  and  brought  him  the  money 
he  had  required.  I  sat  down  by  him,  and  after  a  few  inco- 
herent sentences  of  complaint,  and  entreaty  that  I  would 
not  leave  him,  he  burst  into  tears.  I  soothed  him  and 
replied  to  his  repeated, entreaties  of  'don't  leave  me,'  by 
promises  of  remaining  with  him,  but  told  him  we  must 
leave  that  place.  He  agreed,  but  added,  with  vehemence, 
'Not  back  to  his  house!  No,  never!  never!  !' — Which 
apparent  resolution  he  confirmed  with  vehement  and  reit- 
erated oaths.  The  officer  let  me  know  that  the  gentleman 
had  stopped  the  levying  on  the  goods,  and  agreed  to  pay 
the  quarter's  rent.  I  was  proceeding  to  make  some  inqui- 
ries, but  Cooke,  in  the  most  peremptory  tone,  required 
that  the  money  should  be  paid ;  as  if  fearing  that  his 
ability  to  fulfill  his  promise  should  be  doubted  by  the  by- 
standers. I  paid  the  money  and  demanded  a  receipt.  The 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE. 


35  ! 


officer,  who  was  nearly  drunk,  asked  for  the  gentleman's 
Christian  name ;  when  with  all  the  dignity  of  the  buskin 
the  drooping  hero  raised  his  head,  and  roared  out  most  dis- 
cordantly, 'George  Frederick!  George  Frederick  Cooke!' 
The  peculiar  sharpness  of  the  higher  tones  of  his  voice, 
joined  to  the  unmelodious  and  croaking  notes  of  debauch- 
ery, with  his  assumed  dignity  and  squalid  appearance,  were 
truly  comic  though  pitiable.  .  .  . 

"The  next  day  after  our  arrival  at  Philadelphia,  Mr. 
Cooke  rehearsed  Richard. 

"After  the  rehearsal,  he  went  to  walk  with  the  managers 
and  see  the  city,  while  I  attended  to  other  engagements, 
having  promised  to  meet  him  at  Mr.  Wood's,  where  we 
were  to  dine  by  invitation. 

"We  accordingly  met  and  dined  at  Mr.  Wood's,  and  I 
saw  realized  all  that  insanity  of  conduct,  and  licentious- 
ness of  speech,  of  which  I  had  before  heard  much,  but  had 
never  yet  seen  an  exhibition. 

"  The  party  was  principally  theatrical,  and  after  dinner, 
unfortunately  the  wine  circulated  more  freely  than  the  wit. 
My  hero,  who  had  protested  in  the  morning  that  he  would 
take  care  of  himself,  and  only  drink  wine  and  water,  was 
supplied  by  the  politeness  of  his  host  with  some  good  old 
port,  which  he  threw  down  without  remorse  ;  but  I  cannot 
say  without  shame,  for  his  eye  most  assiduously  avoided 
mine,  which  probably  he  perceived  had  an  expression  of 
anxious  watchfulness  in  it.  The  afternoon  was  oppressively 
warm,  and  seeing  that  Cooke's  fate  for  the  day  was  fixed, 
I  retired  to  the  house  of  a  friend  and  took  tea. 

"Between  eight  and  nine  o'clock  I  returned  to  Mr. 
Wood's,  and  before  I  entered  the  door  heard  the  high  and 
discordant  notes  of  George  Frederick's  voice.  I  found 
the  party  increased  by  the  addition  of  some  New  York  and 
Philadelphia  gentlemen,  who  had  been  dining  together 


352 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


elsewhere,  and  knowing  that  the  veteran  bacchanalian  was 
here,  called  in  to  see  him.  And  they  saw  an  exhibition  of 
him,  in  all  the  eccentricity  of  madness.  Mr.  Wood,  whose 
habits  were  those  of  temperance,  and  whose  health  was 
delicate,  had,  according  to  a  custom  '  more  honored  in  the 
breach  than  the  observance,'  pushed  about  the  bottle,  and 
tasted  to  prove  that  it  was  good ;  and  was  now  primed 
with  mirth,  and  so  charged  with  words,  that  they  flowed,  or 
rather  were  thrown  out,  high,  noisy,  and  foaming  like  the 
incessant  stream  of  a  jet  d' eau.  Cooke,  infinitely  annoyed 
at  this  never-ceasing  eloquence  from  a  Yankee  manager, 
at  a  time  too  when  he  felt  that  all  should  attend  to  him, 
would  interrupt  his  host  by  striking  his  fist  on  the  table, 
and  crying  out  with  a  tremendous  shout,  '  Hear  me,  sir  !' 

"When  I  came  in  he  immediately  made  way  for  me 
near  him,  exclaiming,  '  Ah  !  I  see  I  was  mistaken.  I  have 
been  telling  them  that  you  were  in  bed  by  this  time ;  but 
I  see  how  it  is,  you  have  been  taking  your  tea.  He  owns 
himself  to  be  a  tea-sot.  He  is  the  only  man  that  shall  com- 
mand George  Frederick  Cooke,  and  I  put  myself  under  his 
orders.' 

"  W ,  one  of  the  newcomers,  who  was  mischievously 

filling  up  bumpers  for  Cooke,  and  persuading  him,  the 
moment  after  drinking  that  he  neglected  to  drink,  whis- 
pered me,  'I  suppose  then  your  orders  will  be  sailing 
orders.'  I  begged  him  to  desist  from  his  sport,  and  he 
and  his  companions  went  off  professing  that  they  were 
going  to  prepare  for  a  ball. 

"'A  ball!'  exclaimed  Cooke,  as  they  bade  him  good- 
night, and  went  off,  '  they  reel  from  the  bottle  to  the  ball ! 
If  ever  I  have  an  opportunity  of  quizzing  these  Yankees, 
I'll  remember  this.  "I'll  not  forget  the  drunken  gentle- 
men in  their  dirty  boots  going  to  a  ball !  But  it's  just  like 
everything  else  in  the  d — d  country.' 


GEORGE   1-KEDER1CK  COOKE. 


353 


"Mr.  Wood,  who  was  sufficiently  under  the  influence 
of  his  own  good  wine  not  to  see  the  uselessness  of  opposing 
Cooke,  instead  of  laughing,  began  seriously  to  explain  : 

"  '  But,  my  dear  sir,  they  are  only  going  to  change  their 
dress  before  going  to  a  ball.' 

"  '  Don't  talk  to  me,  sir  !  Pretty  fellows  for  the  com- 
pany of  ladies,  just  from  the  tavern,  the  cigar,  and  the 
bottle !' 

"  '  But,  my  dear  sir ' 

"  Then  Cooke  would  dash  his  fist  on  the  table,  with  the 
tremendous  '  Hear  me,  sir  !'  which  always  produced  silence 
after  a  laugh  at  the  ludicrous  impropriety  of  his  peremptory 
tone  and  manner. 

"  '  They  don't  know  what  belongs  to  gentlemen,  and 
have  no  idea  of  the  decency  and  suavity  of  politeness. — 
My  dear  D — ,  sit  down  by  me — don't  leave  me  again. 
Didn't  I  throw  out  my  voice  this  morning  !  Ah,  ha ! — 
haw  !  Ah,  ha ! — I  astonished  the  Yankee  actors  ! — I  gave 
it  them — I'll  show  these  fellows  what  acting  is  !' 

"  Wood.  '  You  frightened  some  of  our  young  men,  sir ; 
but  they  are  clever  lads,  I'll  assure  you.' 

"  C .  "  Clever  are  they?  I  wonder  how  you  are  to 

find  it  out.  But  you're  all  alike  !' 

"  W- .  '  My  dear  sir,  I  have  seen  you  act  when  you 

were  surrounded  by  dire  dogs.' 

"  C .  '  The  worst  of  them,  better  than  the  best  of 

you.' 

"  W- .  'Jack  B ,  now,  he's  a  clever  lad,  but  you 

won't  say  he's  an  actor.  I  love  Jack,  he's  my  friend,  but 
he's  a  dire  dog  of  an  actor.' 

"C .  'He's  your  friend,  is  he?  you  take  an  odd 

way  of  showing  your  friendship.     I  feel  inclined  to  be 

severe.'     Turning  to  one  near  him:    'I'll  cut  up  these 

Yankee  actors,  and   their  wooden  god — don't  leave  me. 

3o* 


354  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

O,  the  night  I  slept  at  Amboy — I  never  slept  in  my  life 
before — poor  Billy  Lewis  is  dead — sixty-five — I  thought  I 
should  have  seen  him  again.' 

"  W- .   'Ah,  sir,  he  was  an  actor!' 

"  C .   '  How  do  you  know,  sir?' 

"  W .  '  Why,  my  dear  sir,  I  have  seen  him  many  a 

time.' 

' '  C .   '  You  see  him  !  where  should  you  see  him  ?' 

"  W- .   'In  England,  sir — in  London.' 

"  C .  'And  what  then?  What  the  more  would  you 

know  from  having  seen  him  ?'  And  then  to  another  person, 
and  in  another  tone,  '  Didn't  I  throw  out  my  voice  this 
morning  !  I'll  show  them  what  acting  is.  They  talk  of 
their  Cooper,'  raising  his  voice  furiously,  'their  idol  !  their 
wooden  god  !  Compare  me  to  Cooper  !  Have  not  I  stood 
the  trial  with  John  ?  What  is  your  Cooper  compared  to 
Kemble  !' 

"  W .  'But,  Mr.  Cooke,  you  are  supposing  a  com- 
parison that  no  one  has  made — Mr.  Cooper  is  a  gentleman 
and  a  scholar ' 

"  C .  '  A  scholar?  How  do  you  find  that  out?  His 

scholarship  is  deep,  it  never  appears.' 

"  IV .  '  But  as  to  comparison  with  you,  no  one 

thinks  of  making  any ' 

"  C .  'Sir,  I  have  heard  it.  An  actor! — he's  no 

actor — a  ranting  mouther,  that  can't  read  a  line  !  I  appeal 
to  you ' 

"  '  Sir,  Mr.  Cooper  is  my  friend ' 

"He  appeared  to  pay  no  attention  to  the  reply,  but 
ceased  speaking  of  Cooper,  and  turned  his  abuse  more 
particularly  against  Mr.  Wood's  acting,  of  which  he  knew 
nothing,  as  he  had  never  seen  him  play,  nor  heard  him 
recite  a  speech. 

"  While  a  servant  by  his  desire  went  for  a  carriage,  he 


GEOKGE  FREDERICK  COOKE. 


355 


continued  this  strain  of  abuse  on  any  person  whose  image 
was  presented  to  his  mind,  and  particularly  upon  Ameri- 
cans, and  their  country,  at  the  same  time  drinking  what 
was  officiously  poured  out  for  him,  in  that  hurried  and 
forced  manner  with  which  we  have  seen  a  nauseous  drug 
thrown  down  the  throat ;  when  suddenly  he  looked  at  Mr. 
Wood,  who  sat  opposite  to  him,  and  exclaimed  : 

"  '  Why  don't  you  drink,  ST?     You  don't  drink.' 

"'lam  waiting,'  pointing  to  a  bottle  of  wine  in  a 
cooler,  'till  this  wine  cools,  sir.' 

"  '  So — and  give  me  the  warm — d d  polite  !  but  you 

are  all  alike — Cooper  and  Price  and  you  are ' 

"  'Sir,  I  never  allow  a  man,  whatever  his. situation  may 
be,  to  make  use  of  such  an  appellation  to  me.' 

"  Cooke  had  made  use  of  an  expression  which  conveyed 
an  idea  of  unfair  dealing  in  respect  to  his  engagement,  and 
a  term  of  vulgar  insult ;  and  now  seeing  a  serious  effect 
produced,  immediately  appeared  to  collect  himself  for  a 
retreat.  Mr.  Wood  proceeded  : 

" '  If  you  think  there  is  anything  unfair  on  our  part,  in 
your  Philadelphia  engagement,  Mr.  Warren  and  myself  will 
instantly  annul  it.  Sir,  you  have  made  use  of  an  appella- 
tion which  I  will  not  suffer  any  man  to  make  use  of  to  me.' 

"  Cooke  disavowed  all  intention  of  disrespect,  and 
backed  out  most  manfully,  until  a  perfect  reconciliation 
took  place.  .  .  . 

"  During  this  visit  to  New  York,  Mr.  Cooke  exhibited 
himself  at  a  tea-party.  A  number  of  ladies  and  gentle- 
men met,  all  anxious  to  see  this  extraordinary  creature, 
and  anticipating  the  pleasure  to  be  derived,  as  they  sup- 
posed, from  his  conversation,  his  humor,  and  his  wit. 
Cooke,  charged  much  higher  with  wine  than  with  wit,  and 
with  that  stiffness  produced  by  the  endeavor  to  counteract 
involuntary  motion,  was  introduced  into  a  large  circle  of 


356  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

gentlemen,  distinguished  for  learning,  or  wit,  or  taste ; 
and  ladies,  equally  distinguished  for  those  acquirements 
and  endowments  most  valued  in  their  sex. 

"A  part  of  the  property  of  the  tragedian  which  had 
been  seized  by  the  custom-house  officers,  under  the  non- 
importation law,  had  not  been  yet  released,  owing  to  some 
delay  from  necessary  form,  and  this  was  a  constant  subject 
of  irritation  to  him,  particularly  that  they  should  withhold 
from  him  the  celebrated  cups  presented  to  him  by  the 
Liverpool  managers ;  and  now  his  introductory  speech 
among  his  expectant  circle  was  addressed  to  one  of  the 
gentlemen,  with  whom  he  was  acquainted,  and  was  an  ex- 
clamation without  any  prefatory  matter,  of  '  They  have 
stolen  my  cups !' 

"  The  astonishment  of  such  an  assembly  may  be  im- 
agined. After  making  his  bows  with  much  circumspec- 
tion, he  seated  himself  and  very  wisely  stuck  to  his  chair 
for  the  remainder  of  the  evening;  and  he  likewise  stuck  to 
his  text,  and  his  cups  triumphed  over  every  image  that 
could  be  presented  to  his  imagination. 

"  '  Madam,  they  have  stopped  my  cups.  Why  did  they 
not  stop  my  swords?  No,  they  let  my  swords  pass.  But 
my  cups  will  melt,  and  they  have  a  greater  love  for  silver 
than  for  steel.  My  swords  would  be  useless  with  them  ; 
but  they  can  melt  my  cups  and  turn  them  to  dollars  !  And 
my  Shakespeare — they  had  better  keep  that :  they  need  his 
instruction,  and  may  improve  by  him — if  they  know  how 
to  read  him.' 

"Seeing  a  print  of  Kemble  in  Rolla,  he  addressed  it: 
'Ah,  John,  are  you  there  !'  then  turning  to  Master  Payne, 
he,  in  his  half-whispering  manner,  added,  '  I  don't  want 
to  die  in  this  country — John  Kemble  will  laugh.' 

"Among  the  company  was  an  old  and  tried  revolution- 
ary officer — a  true  patriot  of  '76. 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE.  357 

"  Hearing  Cooke  rail  against  the  country  and  the  gov- 
ernment, he  at  first  began  to  explain,  and  then  to  defend  ; 
but  soon  finding  what  his  antagonist's  situation  was,  he 
ceased  opposition.  Cooke  continued  his  insolence,  and 
finding  that  he  was  unnoticed,  and  even  what  he  said  in 
the  shape  of  query  unattended  to,  he  went  on : 

"  '  That's  right ;  you  are  prudent — the  government  may 
hear  of  it — walls  have  ears  !' 

"  Tea  was  repeatedly  presented  to  him.  which  he  refused. 
The  little  black  girl  with  her  server  next  offered  him  cake 
— this  he  rejected  with  some  asperity.  Fruit  was  offered 
to  him,  and  he  told  the  girl  he  was  '  sick  of  seeing  her 
face.'  Soon  after,  she  brought  him  wine.  '  Why,  you 
little  black  angel,'  says  Cooke,  taking  the  wine,  '  you  look 
like  the  devil,  but  you  bear  a  passport  that  would  carry 
you  unquestioned  into  Paradise.' 

"  The  company  separated  early,  and  Master  Payne  hap- 
pily resigned  his  visitor  to  the  safe  keeping  of  the  waiters 
of  the  Tontine  Coffee  House. 

"At  Baltimore,  as  in  every  other  city  on  the  continent, 
the  greatest  admiration  was  shown  of  Mr.  Cooke's  talents 
as  an  actor,  and  the  strongest  desire  to  pay  him  every  re- 
spect as  a  gentleman.  But  the  same  obstacles  arose  to  the 
fulfillment  of  this  wish  as  at  every  other  place  he  had 
visited. 

"  In  one  instance,  when  a  gentleman  happened  to  men- 
tion that  his  family  were  among  the  first  settlers  of  Mary- 
land, he  asked  him  if  he  had  carefully  preserved  the  family 
jewels.  And  on  being  questioned  as  to  his  meaning, 
replied,  *  the  chains  and  handcuffs.' 

"  The  notoriety  of  his  character  preserved  him  from  such 
returns  as  such  language  would  have  met  if  coming  from 
other  men ;  and  this,  perhaps,  encouraged  him  to  indulge 
what  he  called  his  propensity  to  sarcasm. 


358  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

"At  a  dinner-party  given  in  honor  of  him  by  Mr. 

,  he  was  led,  still  continuing  his  libations,  to  descant 

on  Shakespeare,  and  the  mode  of  representing  his  great 
characters;  which  he  did  eloquently,  and  to  the  delight 
of  a  large  company.  Suddenly,  to  the  astonishment  of 
them  all,  he  jumped  up,  and  exclaimed : 

"'Who  among  you  sent  me  that  d d  anonymous 

letter?' 

"  'What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Cooke?' 

"  '  You  know  what  I  mean.  What  have  I  done  to  offend 
you  ?  Have  I  not  treated  ye  all  with  more  respect  than  ye 
deserved  ?  And  now  to  have  a  charge  of  so  base  a  nature 
made  against  me !' 

"  '  What  do  you  complain  of,  Mr.  Cooke?' 

"  '  Sir,  I  am  accused  of  falsehood.  I  am  accused  of 
making  false  assertions.  I  have  received  an  anonymous 
letter  containing  this  line  alone,  "  Justify  your  words."  Sir, 
my  words  are  truth.  What  have  I  said  that  I  cannot  jus- 
tify? I  have  perhaps  been  too  keen  upon  the  character  of 
your  country,  but  truth  is  the  severest  satire  upon  it.  I 
am  ready  to  justify  what  I  have  said  !' 

"  Mr.  ,  seeing  his  company  thrown  into  confusion, 

and  all  harmony  broken  up,  arose  and  expostulated  with 
his  guest,  and  finally  hinted  that  the  anonymous  letter  was 
a  creation  of  his  heated  imagination.  Cooke  then  resumed 
his  seat,  and  fixing  his  eye  on  his  host  for  some  time,  ex- 
claimed, '  I  have  marked  you,  sir !  I  have  had  my  eye 
upon  you;  it  is  time  that  your  impertinence  should  be 
curbed  !' 

"This  excessive  licentiousness  of  speech,  with  the  pecu- 
liar manner  of  the  speaker,  appeared  so  ludicrous,  that  the 
company  burst  into  loud  laughter,  and  Cooke,  changing 
his  manner,  joined  heartily  with  them,  and  again  resumed 
his  glass. 


GEORGE  FREDERICK  COOKE. 


359 


"  Some  time  after,  a  gentleman  told  him  that  it  was  re- 
ported that  Mr.  Madison,  the  President  of  the  United 
Stales,  purposed  to  come  from  Washington  to  Baltimore, 
to  see  him  act. 

"  '  If  he  does,  I'll  be  d— d  if  I  play  before  him.  What ! 
I !  George  Frederick  Cooke !  who  have  acted  before  the 
majesty  of  Britain,  play  before  your  Yankee  president ! 
No  ! — Til  go  forward  to  the  audience,  and  I'll  say,  Ladies 
and  gentlemen ' 

"  Here  he  was  interrupted  playfully  by  Mr.  W .  who 

happened  to  be  dressed  in  black. 

"  '  Oh,  no,  Mr.  Cooke,  that  would  not  be  right  in  this 
country ;  von  should  say,  Friends  and  fellow-citizens.* 

"  Cooke,  surveying  him  contemptuously,  cried,  *  Hold 
your  tongue,  you  d — d  methodist  preacher  :*  and  then  pro- 
ceeded— '  ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  king  of  the  Yankee- 
doodles  has  come  to  see  me  act ;  me,  me,  George  Frederick 
Cooke !  who  have  stood  before  my  royal  master  George 
the  Third,  and  received  his  imperial  approbation  !  And 
shall  I  exert  myself  to  play  before  one  of  his  rebellious 
subjects,  who  arrogates  kingly  state  in  defiance  of  his 
master?  No,  it  is  degradation  enough  to  play  before 
rebels :  but  I'll  not  go  on  for  the  amusement  of  a  king  of 
rebels,  the  contemptible  king  of  the  Yankee-doodles  '.' 

"  This  effusion  only  excited  laughter,  and  he  went  on  to 
expatiate  on  his  deeds  of  arms  in  the  war  against  the  rebels ; 
and  every  place  in  the  neighborhood  where  an  action  had 
been  fought  was  the  scene  of  his  military  achievements. 

"  His  garrulity  led  him  to  talk  of  his  domestic  affairs, 
and  to  lament  that  he  had  no  children  ;  but  shortly  after, 
filling  a  bumper,  he  proposed  the  health  of  his  eldest  son, 
a  captain  in  the  5th. 

« '  What  is  his  name,  Mr.  Cooke?' 
.   "  •  What  is  my  name,  sir?    George  Frederick  Cooke.' 


360  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

"A  short  time  after,  his  second  son  was  proposed  with  a 
bumper. 

"  '  What  is  his  name,  Mr.  Cooke?' 

"What  should  it  be,  sir,  but  George  Frederick  Cooke?' 

"With  difficulty  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  get  into  a 
coach  to  return  home  to  Baltimore.  Still  it  was  necessary 
that  some  one  should  attend  him,  and  late  at  night  his  hpst 
performed  that  kind  office.  This  offended  Cooke,  and  he 
began  to  abuse  him,  and  everything  belonging  to  the  coun- 
try. This  gentleman  observing  the  stump  of  a  tree  near 
the  wheel-track,  as  they  passed  through  a  grove,  cautioned 
the  coachman.  '  What,  sir,  do  you  pretend  to  direct  my 
servant  ?'  cried  Cooke.  His  companion  humored  him  by 
apologizing ;  but  seeing  the  coachman  driving  too  near  the 
edge  of  a  bridge,  he  again  spoke  to  him. 

"'This  is  too  much,'  cried  Cooke;  'get  out  of  my 
coach,  sir  ! — out — stop,  coachman  !' 

"  '  Drive  on  !' 

"  '  Get  out !  Do  you  order  my  coachman  ?  Get  out,  or 
this  fist  shall ' 

"  Mr.  ,  who  had  been  told  Cooke's  character,  in- 
terrupted him  by  exclaiming : 

"  '  Sit  still,  sir,  or  I'll  blow  your  brains  out  this  instant.' 

"  Cooke  was  petrified,  and  sat  like  a  statue — but  soon 
began  with  '  Has  George  Frederick  Cooke  come  to  this 

d d  country  to  be  treated  thus?  Shall  it  be  told  in 

England  ! — Well,  sir,  if  you  will  not  get  out,  I  will,'  and 

he  opened  the  door.  Mr.  was  obliged  to  stop  the 

coach,  for  fear  of  injury  to  Cooke,  who  tumbled  himself 
out,  and  surlily  sat  down  under  a  tree.  With  great  diffi- 
culty his  opposition  was  overcome,  and  Mr.  ,  near 

daylight,  got  rid  of  his  troublesome  and  turbulent  guest 
by  depositing  him  at  his  lodgings. 

"  Thus  in  every  city  the  disposition  to  honor  his  talents 


ELLISTOX.  361 

was  opposed  by  his  unhappy  habits,  and  it  was  found  that, 
whatever  he  once  might  have  been,  he  was  no  longer  an 
agreeable  associate  for  gentlemen,  unless  the  bottle  was 
kept  out  of  sight." 

But  there  was  soon  to  be  an  end  to  this  round  of  drunk- 
enness, and  mad  fury,  and  grotesqueness.  So  wild  and 
disorderly  a  life  was  not  destined  to  endure  long,  and  this 
American  outburst  hurried  the  whole  to  a  conclusion.  It 
would  be  impossible  to  give  an  idea  of  the  extravagant 
alternations  that  marked  his  short  stay  in  the  country.  No 
wonder  that  Byron  should  write  of  the  strange  record  of 
his  adventures,  that  "nothing  like  it  has  drenched  the 
press.  All  green-room  and  tap-room.  Drams  and  the 
drama — brandy,  whisky  punch,  and  latterly  toddy,  over- 
flow every  page." 

After  a  series  of  attacks  and  recoveries  that  almost  in- 
variably followed  when  he  returned  to  a  sober  course  of 
life,  he  found  it  impossible  to  resist  the  seduction  of  fresh 
debauches,  and  at  last,  in  September,  1812,  he  expired  at 
the  age  of  fifty-seven,  quite  worn  out. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

ELLISTOX-* 

THE  looking  at  portraits  of  famous  comedians  seems  to 
be  entertainment  almost  second  to  that  of  seeing  them  on 
the  stage.  No  such  intellectual  pleasure  is  of  course  to  be 
gathered  from  photographs, — which  bear  both  portrait  and 
spectator  downwards,  and  show  how  far  below  the  high 

»  Born  1774.  died  1831.  •* 

Q  3' 


362  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE   STAGE. 

standard  we  had  dreamed  of  must  be  the  originals.  This 
disagreeable  effect  is  owing  to  the  suppression  of  all  that  is 
intelligent,  and  to  the  development  of  what  is  earthly  and 
material — owing  to  the  enforced  attitude  and  impassive 
mood  required  by  the  process.  To  those  who  so  often 
repeat  that  a  photograph  must  be  the  best  kind  of  likeness, 
it  can  therefore  be  said  that  the  mere  outline  of  face  and 
figure  is  but  an  element  of  resemblance ;  and  that  expres- 
sion under  the  most  favorable  emotion — as  when  the  orator 
is  kindling  with  his  subject,  or  when  the  most  agreeable 
faculties  are  awakened  —  is  a  far  more  essential  point. 
Hence  it  is  that  between  photography  and  art  there  is  a 
sort  of  sunken  fence  which  by  no  ingenuity  or  amount  of 
improvement  can  ever  be  crossed. 

Among  theatrical  portraits,  on  the  contrary,  are  found 
the  most  favorable  specimens  of  the  painter's  craft.  There 
is  a  vivacity,  a  life,  a  variety  not  found  in  other  likenesses. 
There  has  been  a  regular  line  of  actors'  portrait  painters — 
Hogarth,  Zoffany,  Harlow,  and  De  Wilde,  perhaps  the  most 
versatile  and  practiced  of  all.  It  is  impossible  to  give  an 
idea  of  the  range  of  expression,  the  infinite  intelligence  of 
the  faces  thus  happily  preserved.  The  full-length  of  Edwin 
as  the  "  Marquis"  in  "A  Midnight  Hour,"  at  South  Ken- 
sington, is  a  happy  example,  and  exhibits  an  airy  ease,  an 
aristocratic  refinement,  as  well  as  a  hint  of  that  slight  ex- 
aggeration of  bearing  which  Lamb  insisted  was  necessary 
to  true  comedy,  as  opposed  to  the  more  exact  imitation  or 
"realism"  which  is  the  highest  aim  of  our  day.  In  pres- 
ence of  such  pictures  we  enjoy  comedy  at  second  hand,  and 
indeed  have  a  glimpse  of  comedy  itself. 

These  reflections  are  more  particularly  suggested  by  the 
portrait  of  an  admirable  comedian,  Robert  Elliston,  which 
hangs  upon  the  walls  of  the  Garrick  Club,  and  which,  like 
so  many  of  its  fellows,  is  delightful  to  look  on — being  the 


ELLISTON.  363 

complement,  as  it  were,  of  his  life,  which  has  a  dash  of  one 
of  Congreve's  gay  heroes.  To  such  a  career  it  would  be 
unadvisable  to  apply  the  role  and  square  of  order  or  moral- 
ity ;  that  can  be  done  by  the  proper  appraisers — the  stu- 
dents and  regulators  of  Society,  to  whom  such  are  sadly 
amenable.  But  there  is  a  comedy  side  to  life  for  which  a 
later  generation  makes  an  audience,  and  which  is  to  be 
treated  as  Elia  so  indulgently  justified  the  loose  bat  spark- 
ling pieces  of  Congreve  and  Wycherley,  as  belonging  to 
an  artificial  realm  of  their  own,  where  no  moral  law  ob- 
tained. Something  of  the  same  immunity  is  enjoyed  by 
these  motors  in  the  flesh,  whose  derelictions  are  carried  off 
pleasantly,  and  scarcely  felt  as  wrongs  by  even  the  victim. 
Nowadays  this  species  of  airy  comedy  has  passed  awav  from 
the  stage,  because  it  has  passed  away  from  real  life.  Society 
has  grown  strict,  and  insists  that  all  should  be  subject  to 
the  same  discipline  and  rules.  No  agreeable  Sheridan  puts 
off  the  creditor  with  a  good  story,  or  tricks  him  after  a 
fashion  the  creditor  himself  must  smile  at. 

Elliston  was  one  of  the  comedians  of  real  as  well  as  of 
stage  life ;  he  was  always  playing  "  Mirabel,"  or  "Archer," 
in  the  street  or  the  house;  and  it  would  be  hard  to  say 
whether  he  brought  these  manners  with  him  from  the  draw- 
ing-room to  the  stage,  or  from  the  stage  to  the  drawing- 
room.  These  two  categories  were  indeed  not  separated  by 
any  hard  line,  but  were  blended.  His  handsome  figure, 
brightly  intelligent  face,  in  which  lurked  a  roguish  insinua- 
tion, or  tone  of  voice  conveyed  a  sort  of  second  intention, 
as  it  were,  that  sort  of  legitimate  double  entendre  which  La 
its  true  sense  makes  half  the  charm  of  comedy.  He  wj> 
always  gay  and  gallant,  making  comedy  speeches  off  the 
stage,  and  dealing  out  magnified  flourishes  to  ail  the  world. 
Drunken  habits,  and  other  indecencies,  to  say  nothing  of 
vanity  and  the  pride  of  managerial  prerogative,  turned 


364 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   SILAGE. 


what  was  merely  histrionic  exaggeration  into  positive  ec- 
centricity, and  towards  the  end  of  his  life  the  confusion 
between  the  two  states  of  being  was  complete. 

Such  a  hero,  when  an  insinuating  youth,  of  course  ran 
away  from  home  to  go  on  the  stage.  Though  his  father 
was  a  watchmaker,  his  other  connections  were  respectable, 
and  his  uncle  a  dignitary  of  one  of  the  Oxford  Colleges. 
His  graceful  figure,  manners,  and  intellgent  style  soon  ad- 
vanced him  in  the  profession,  or  rather  in  both  professions, 
for  society  was  henceforth  found  to  be  as  profitable  and 
agreeable  a  one  as  his  official  calling.  His  marriage  had  a 
sort  of  comedy  flavor ;  a  rather  passee  dancing  mistress  at 
Bath,  Miss  Fleming,  having  fallen  in  love  with  him.  It  was 
her  assistant,  however,  that  was  the  object  of  his  attentions, 
whom  he  eventually  married.  His  wife  proved  an  excellent, 
amiable  woman,  almost  too  tolerant  of  the  levities  and  fail- 
ings of  the  gay  husband,  who  indulged  in  the  fashionable 
excesses  of  high  play,  deep  drinking,  and  gallantry.  The 
average  course  of  his  domestic  life,  or  the  sober  records  of 
his  professional  engagements,  would  have  little  interest  for 
the  reader,  and  belong  to  the  regular  annals  of  the  stage. 
It  is  a  study  of  character,  eccentric,  buoyant,  and  excep- 
tional, that  is  presented  here.  After  his  reputation  was 
made  he  began  to  attract  attention  by  a  sort  of  extrava- 
gance, and  to  court  the  attention  and  sympathy  of  the 
public  by  devices  outside  the  line  of  his  profession.  This 
was  owing  to  his  vanity,  which  had  become  egregious, 
and  which  led  him  into  the  delusion  that  he  was  of  such 
importance  that  his  proceedings  off  the  stage  were  equally 
interesting  with  his  legitimate  performances  on  the  boards. 
The  agreeable  comedian  was  unhappily  gifted  with  a  turn 
for  speech-making,  which  led  him,  like  so  many  of  his 
brethren,  to  turn  the  stage  into  a  rostrum,  or  tribune, 
from  which  he  could  communicate  his  grievances  and 


ELLISTON.  365 

opinions  to  the  audience.  The  latter,  from  curiosity  and 
the  desire  of  novelty,  is  naturally  ready  to  encourage  such 
exhibitions,  which  have  often  a  dramatic  character  of  their 
own,  though  a  character  not  in  harmony  with  the  place. 

In  July,  1805,  a  piece  by  Andrew  Cherry — a  facetious 
actor  who  once  ended  his  letter  "You  cannot  make  two 
bites  of  A  CHERRY" — was  brought  out  at  the  Haymarket, 
and  was  a  complete  failure.  Elliston,  however,  who  had 
taken  a  perverse  interest  in  it,  determined  that  it  should 
have  a  second  trial  on  the  following  night,  when  it  met 
with  even  a  more  hostile  reception.  During  its  progress. 
when  loud  disapprobation  was  being  expressed,  it  was 
noticed  that  the  excited  patron  of  the  piece  had  singled  out 
a  gentleman  in  the  boxes,  who  was  conspicuous  in  express- 
ing his  opinion,  and  half  unsheathing  his  stage  sword, 
hurled  defiance  at  him.  At  the  close  of  the  performance, 
when  the  curtain  had  fallen  in  a  storm  of  disapproval,  a 
long  delay  succeeded,  which  was  followed  by  the  abrupt 
appearance  of  Mr.  Elliston,  who  was  much  excited,  and 
appeared  to  arrive  fresh  from  some  scene  of  scuffle  or  con- 
fusion. He  thus  addressed  the  audience : 

"LADIES  AND  GENTLEMEN, 

"I  am  at  present  considerably  agitated,  not  so  much  by 
what  has  occurred  before  the  curtain,  as  by  a  circumstance 
which  has  just  taken  place  behind  it.  [Here  there  was 
universal  consternation  and  anxiety  J\ 

"  I  have,  ever  since  I  had  the  honor  of  appearing  before 
the  public,  enjoyed  such  a  share  of  its  favor  and  patronage, 
that  no  consideration  whatever  shall  deter  me  from  speak- 
ing the  truth.  The  number  of  those  who  supported  the 
present  piece  last  night  induced  me  to  give  it  out  for  a  sec- 
ond representation,  although,  I  solemnly  declare  (pressing 
his  hand  on  his  heart\  contrary  to  my  own  opinion  (IHIJL- 


366 


THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


ture  of  plaudits  and  disapprobation).  It  must  now  clearly 
appear  to  every  unprejudiced  person  that  the  sense  of  the 
house  is  decidedly  against  it  (bursts  of  applause  and  some 
faint  hisses'}.  I  therefore,  with  your  permission,  beg  to 
substitute  'The  Dramatist'  for  it  to-morrow  night"  (very 
loud  plaudits,  with  some  few  hisses}. 

The  passage  "  it  must  now  clearly  appear  to  every  un- 
prejudiced person,  that  the  sense  of  the  house,"  &c.,  is 
deliciously  Ellistonian,  and  touches  the  true  "note"  of 
his  character. 

Much  speculation  was  excited  by  the  exordium :  and  it 
was  soon  known  that  something  extraordinary  had  taken 
place  behind  the  scenes.  Elliston,  it  seems,  had  attacked 
the  performers,  and,  in  "  a  scolding  and  denouncing  man- 
ner," had  attributed  the  failure  to  their  bad  acting.  This 
intemperateness  was  naturally  resented  ;  and  Mathews  an- 
grily replied  that  every  one  "had  played  as  well  as  Ellis- 
ton,  if  not  better."  The  latter  promptly  gave  his  brother 
the  lie,  and,  according  to  the  report,  was  instantly  knocked 
down  :  as  he  rose  and  tried  to  retaliate,  he  received  a 
second  blow,  which  again  prostrated  him.  This  unseemly 
contest  might  have  gone  on  for  some  time,  had  not  some 
peacemaker  reminded  the  combatants  that  the  audience 
were  waiting.  Threatening  all  round  him  with  vengeance, 
the  excited  Elliston,  wearing  all  the  marks  of  the  fray  on 
his  person,  then  rushed  before  the  audience  and  made  his 
enigmatical  statement. 

The  matter  could  not,  of  course,  be  allowed  to  rest  there, 
and  on  the  following  day,  the  assaulted  actor,  as  eager  to 
present  himself  before  readers  as  he  was  before  hearers, 
wrote  a  letter  to  the  papers.  The  underlined  passages  are 
pleasantly  significant  of  the  "  euphuistic"  side  of  his  char- 
acter, and  the  notion  that  "  those  who  knew  him  best  must 
be  sensible  that  he  was  not  likely  to  be  seen  in  any  such  state 


ELLISTON.  367 

of  degradation"  i.e.,  prostrated  by  a  knock-down  blow, 
would  hare  delighted  Lamb  himself. 

•<S«, 

"  Some  extraordinary  misrepresentation  hawing  appealed 


with  respect  to  an  occurrence  at  this  theatre  last  night,  in 
which  I  happened  to  be  a  party,  I  owe  it  in  justice  to 
myself  to  require  that  the  facts  may  be  correctly  stated. 

"  It  is  true  that  a  momentary  altercation  did  arise  be- 
tween Mr.  Mathews  and  myself  immediately  after  the 
dropping  of  the  curtain  last  night,  which  was  attended  by 
some  warmth  on  both  sides  :  but  it  is  not  true,  as  lias  been 
asset  ted,  that  I  was  '  knocked  down  twice,"  nor  indeed  that 
I  was  '  knocked  down*  at  all.  Nor  it  it  true  that  I  was 
placed  in  any  situation  humiliating  to  my  feelings  as  a  mum, 
nor  in  the  slightest  degree  derogatory  to  my  fkararter  as  a 
gentleman.  Without  using  any  idle  professions  as  fa-  my  own 
means  of  self-defence,  I  may  be  pardoned  when  I  say  that 
those  -mfho  know  me  best  must  be  sensible  that  lam  not  Kkefy 
to  be  seen  in  any  suck  state  of  degradation. 

"Neither  is  it  true  that  this  disagreement  grew  out  of 
any  assertion  made  by  me,  that  Mr.  Matbews,  or  that  any 
gentleman  of  this  theatre,  had  done  less  than  his  duty  in 
supporting  the  piece  which  had  not  met  with  the  public 
approbation.  What  the  circumstances  were  it  would  be 
useless  and  perhaps  impertinent  in  me  to  obtrude  on  the 
public  attention.  It  is  enough  to  say  that  Mr.  Mathews 
and  myself  hare  every  likelihood  of  being  good  friends,, 
and  that,  were  we  not  so,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any 
man  more  ready  than  myself  to  subscribe  to  the  profes- 
sional excellence  of  Mr.  Mathews,  and  to  acknowledge  the 
fidelity  and  zeal  with  which  he  at  all  times  exerts  his  talents 
for  the  benefit  of  the  theatre,  and  for  the  amusement  of 
the  public,"  .  .  . 

He  added  a  sort  of  testimonial  to  this  letter,  signed  by 


368  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

the  two  Palmers  and  some  other  "bystanders  during  the 
accidental  difference,"  as  they  styled  themselves,  which 
was  to  the  effect  that  it  was  "totally  void  of  foundation" 
that  Mr.  Elliston  had  been  knocked  down,  and  concluding 
with  a  sort  of  Pickwickian  declaration  that  "  no  cir- 
cumstance took  place  which  was  in  any  respect  dishon- 
orable to  that  gentleman  or  indeed  to  either  party." 
Mathews,  to  Elliston 's  infinite  annoyance,  took  the  more 
dignified  course  of  remaining  silent,  declining  either  to 
accept  or  contradict  Elliston's  version  of  the  matter.  The 
rather  fine  distinction  was  probably  made  that  Mr.  Elliston 
had  indeed  come  to  the  ground,  though  not  from  a  blow 
of  Mathews.  The  matter  could  hardly  remain  there,  and 
a  Mr.  Philips  waited  on  Mathews's  "friend,"  Sir  John 
Carr,  to  demand  an  apology  for  the  assault.  This  was 
refused,  on  the  ground  that  the  blow  had  been  returned  ; 
and,  as  both  parties  were  firm,  the  only  solution  of  the  dif- 
ficulty seemed  to  be  the  one  then  fashionable  among  gen- 
tlemen. Suddenly,  to  the  amazement  of  those  who  were 
looking  on,  a  highly  irrelevant  issue  was  tendered  and  ac- 
cepted, and  Mr.  Mathews  was  asked  to  declare  in  writing 
that  "  he  had  never  endeavored  to  injure  Mr.  Elliston  in 
the  opinion  of  the  managers  of  the  Haymarket  Theatre  or 
any  one  of  them,'"  or  that  he  had  "never  countenanced 
any  party  in  hostility  to  Mr.  Elliston's  interests."  In 
return  for  which  declaration,  in  whose  legal  particularity 
Elliston  seemed  to  look  for  the  satisfaction  he  could  not 
otherwise  obtain,  the  latter  on  the  same  clay  declared  that 
he  had  been  mistaken  "in  the  suspicions  he  had  farmed  as 
to  any  injurious  conduct,"  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Mathews, 
and  regretted  he  should  have  so  far  wronged  Mr.  Mathews 
as  to  have  entertained  any  of  the  kind.  There  is  nothing 
more  amusing  in  the  whole  annals  of  gentlemen's  diffi- 
culties;  though  the  "Pickwickian  sense"  of  originally 


ELLISTON.  369 

hostile  declarations  has  become  almost  a  proverb,  it  has 
never  taken  so  entertaining  a  shape.  The  two  actors,  who 
had  been  schoolfellows,  were  reconciled,  and  when  they 
appeared  on  the  stage  in  some  piece  where  they  had  to 
shake  hands,  the  late  unseemly  quarrel  was  recognized  by 
the  audience,  and  a  hearty  burst  of  applause  greeted  this 
symbolical  token  of  friendship.  Thus  the  affair  ended. 

A  sort  of  omnivorous  passion  for  directing  theatres  had 
taken  possession  of  this  singular  being,  and  he  had  soon 
collected  into  his  single  hands  the  reins  of  management 
of  nearly  half  a  dozen  different  houses.  Indeed  so  over- 
powering was  this  fancy,  that  any  sort  of  showman's  exhi- 
bition that  came  into  the  market  became,  as  it  were,  fish 
for  his  net,  and  he  could  not  refrain  from  offering  for 
dwarfs,  circuses,  monsters,  &c.  This  curious  taste  could 
be  accounted  for,  as  these  various  offices  of  command  pre- 
sented so  many  opportunities  of  exercising  the  show  of 
authority,  speeches,  and  circumlocutions  in  which  he  de- 
lighted. He  thus  secured  theatres  at  Liverpool,  Birming- 
ham— the  "  Royal  Circus,"  which  he  converted  into  the 
more  imposing  Surrey  Theatre,  the  Olympic,  and  later  the 
great  house  of  Drury  Lane  itself.  Here,  as  may  be  im- 
agined, he  reveled  in  dignity,  and  speeched  to  his  heart's 
content. 

It  was  not,  indeed,  in  his  orthodox  relations  to  the 
drama,  but  in  his  dealings  with  his  audience,  that  his 
quaint  gifts  were  exhibited.  The  presence  of  the  crowd, 
the  lights,  the  glitter,  above  all  some  commotion  or  ex- 
citement, seemed  to  call  forth  those  curious  arts  which  the 
rudely  organized  might  class  as  "humbug,"  but  which  were 
in  truth  specimens  of  a  high  kind  of  art. — That  they  were 
removed  from  the  disagreeable  category  just  named,  is 
proved  by  the  success  which  almost  invariably  attended 
their  exertion.  We  can  hear  him  for  instance  in  an 
Q* 


37° 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 


emergency  when  a  popular  actor,  set  down  for  a  particular 
part,  had  not  appeared  on  the  stage.  This  truant  player's 
name  was  Carles, — it  is  Mrs.  Mathews  who  tells  the  story: — 
"  The  audience  began  to  show  its  disapprobation  in  a 
noisy  way ;  and  '  Carles  !  Carles  !'  was  the  popular  demand 
— a  demand  which  Mr.  Elliston  was  not  backward  to  answer 
in  his  own  way,  and  coming  promptly  forward  with  his 
most  profound  bow,  respectfully,  though  haughtily,  inquired 
of  the  'Ladies  and  Gentlemen'  what  was  '  their  pleasure.1 

"  Several  voices  vociferated,  'Carles?  Elliston  knitted 
his  brows  with  excessive  earnestness,  affecting  to  be  con- 
founded by  the  noise,  and,  with  increasing  gravity,  again 
desired  to  be  acquainted  with  the  occasion  of  the  extraor- 
dinary tumult,  adding,  with  something  like  command  in 
his  tone,  '  One  at  a  time,  if  you  please.'  Again  the  pop- 
ular cry  was  audible  to  those  who  'had  ears  to  hear.' 
One  malcontent,  raising  his  voice,  however,  louder  than 
the  rest,  enforced  Mr.  Elliston's  attention,  and,  fixing  his 
eyes  suddenly  upon  the  man,  the  manager  then  turned  his 
face  from  him  for  a  moment,  and  haughtily  begging  pardon 
of  the  rest  of  the  pit,  added,  '  Let  me  hear  what  this  gentle- 
man has  to  say;'  and  pointing  to  the  turbulent  individual 
in  question  observed  sternly,  'Now,  sir,  I'll  attend  \.Q  you 
— -first,  if  the  rest  of  the  gentlemen  will  allow  me;"  and 
here  he  made  a  stiff  bow  to  the  gentleman  in  question. 
All  now  became  suddenly  silent,  and  the  selected  person 
sat  down,  looking  rather  sheepish  at  the  distinction  shown 
him  above  his  fellows,  and  Mr.  Elliston,  stooping  over  the 
orchestra,  and  fixing  his  eyes,  like  a  browbeating  barrister, 
on  his  victim,  thus  emphatically  addressed  his  chosen 
man : 

"  'Now,  sir,  be  so  good  as  to  inform  me  what  it  is  you 
require  f 

"The  man,  still  abashed  at  being  thus  singled  out  for 


ELL1STOX. 


371 


particular  notice,  in  rather  a  subdued  tone,  but  affecting 
his  former  valor,  answered — *  Carles  !  Carles !' 

'"Oh!  Carles!.'?  exclaimed  Elliston,  in  a  tone  of 
surprise,  as  if  only  at  that  moment  aware  of  the  cause  of 
dissatisfaction.  '  Oh !  ah  '.  you  want  Mr.  Carlfs  ?  Is  that 
what  you  say,  sir  ?' 

"  '  Yes,'  responded  the  Pit-ite,  with  renewed  confidence ; 
'  his  name's  in  the  bill  5f 

"  '  Very  good,  sir !'  said  the  manager,  who  throughout 
carried  himself  with  the  air  of  one  who  felt  himself  the 
injured  party,  '  I  understand  you  now.  You  are  right,  so 
far,  sir, — Mr.  Carles's  name  is  in  the  bill.' 

"  Here  Mr.  Elliston  was  interrupted  by  others  who  re- 
peated— 

"  '  Yes !  yes ! — his  name's  in  the  bill ! — his  name's  in 
the  bill !' 

" '  Gentlemen  !  with  your  leave,  I  will  say  a  few  words.' 
(All  was  again  silent,  and  the  manager's  earnestness  and 
dignity  increased  as  he  proceeded.)  'I  admit  that  Mr. 
Carles's  name  is  in  the  bill — I  don't  wish  to  deny  it,  but* 
(and  here  he  assumed  a  solemnity  of  face  and  voice,  and 
with  his  deepest  tragedy-manner  impressively  observed ) — 
*  But,  are  you  to  be  reminded  of  the  many  accidents  that 
may  intervene  between  the  morning's  issuing  of  that  bill, 
and  the  evening's  fulfillment  of  its  promise  ?  Is  it  requi- 
site to  remind  the  enlightened  and  thinking  portion  of 
the  public  here  assembled  (and  he  took  a  sweeping  glance 
round  the  house),  that  the  chances  and  changes  of  human 
life  are  dependent  on  circumstances  and  not  upon  ourselves? 

"Here  the  'enlightened'  exclaimed,  'Ay,  ay!  bravo!' 
and  Mr.  Elliston,  gaining  courage  from  this  slight  manifes- 
tation of  sympathy,  turned  himself  once  more  to  his  man 
with  renewed  hauteur,  crying  sharply,  '  And  you,  sir,  you 
who  are  so  loud  in  vour  demand  for  Mr.  Carles,  cannot  \ou 


372  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

also  imagine  that  his  absence  may  be  occasioned  by  some 
dire  distress,  some  occurrence  not  within  human  foresight 
to  anticipate  or  divert?  Can  you  not  picture  to  yourself 
the  possibility  of  Mr.  Carles  at  this  moment  lying  upon  a 
sick — nay,  perhaps  a  dyingbzA — surrounded  by  his  weeping 
children  and  his  agonized  wife  !'  (Mr.  Carles  was  a  bach- 
elor)— '  whose  very  bread  depends  upon  the  existence  of 
an  affectionate,  devoted  husband  and  father — and  who  may 
be  deprived  of  his  exertions  and  support  forever?  Is  it 
so  very  difficult  to  imagine  a  scene  like  this  taking  place  at 
the  very  moment  you  are  calling  for  him  so  imperiously  to 
appear  before  you — selfishly  desirous  of  your  present  amuse- 
ment, and  unmindful  of  his  probable  danger!'  (great  and 
general  applause.)  '  And_jw/,  sir,  will  perhaps  repeat  your 
demand  to  have  Mr.  Carles  brought  before  you  !  Are  you 
a  husband  ?  are  you  a  father  ?' 

"  '  Shame  !  shame  !'  resounded  now  from  every  part  of 
the  pit. 

"  'You  are  right,  sir,'  resumed  the  manager;  'you  are 
quite  right.  It  is  a  shame  ;  I  blush  at  such  inhumanity  !' 

"'Turn  him  out!  turn  him  out!'  was  now  generally 
vociferated,  even  by  those  who  had  originally  joined  in  the 
objectionable  demand ;  and  Elliston,  choosing  to  receive 
this  suggestion  as  a  question  addressed  to  himself,  promptly 
replied  with  the  most  dignified  assent — 

"  '  If  you  please  /' 

"  In  the  next  moment  the  offending  individual  was  lifted 
above  the  heads  of  his  brother  malcontents,  and,  in  spite 
of  his  vehement  remonstrances  and  struggles,  hoisted  across 
the  pit,  actually  ejected,  and  the  door  closed  upon  him  by 
his  removers.  Mr.  Elliston,  who  had  waited  the  result  with 
great  composure,  now  bowed  very  low,  while  he  received  the 
general  applause  of  the  house  and  retired  in  grave  triumph." 

More  characteristic  still  is  his  device  on  his  benefit  night 


ELLISTON.  373 

at  Worcester.  For  this  solemnity  he  had  issued  a  stupen- 
dous programme,  announcing  as  the  chief  feature  a  mag- 
nificent display  of  fireworks  on  the  stage !  This  novelty 
caused  great  excitement  and  much  ingenious  anticipation, 
owing  to  the  conceived  impossibility  of  introducing  pyro- 
technical  effects — at  least  of  such  pretension  as  he  had 
advertised — within  the  walls  of  a  theatre.  The  airy  come- 
dian, however,  gave  the  matter  no  thought  until  a  day  or 
two  before  the  event — when  all  tickets  had  been  taken. 
He  then  artfully  began  to  hint  to  the  landlord  of  the  prop- 
erty— a  worthy  man,  much  respected  in  the  place — some 
grave  forebodings  as  to  the  dangers  of  such  an  exhibition, 
and  so  skillfully  that  the  owner  became  alarmed  and  posi- 
tively forbade  the  presentation  of  a  performance  so  peril- 
ous to  his  interests.  Ell  1st  on  protested,  and  with  much 
vehement  indignation  spoke  of  "  his  being  committed  to 
the  public,"  of  his  honor  engaged  and  the  like.  The  land- 
lord was  inflexible,  and  could  only  be  prevailed  on  to  keep 
the  matter  secret  until  the  night.  A  crowded  boose  as- 
sembled when  the  evening  came  round — drawn  a  good 
deal  by  the  actor's  own  popularity,  but  more  excited  by 
the  promise  of  the  unusual  entertainment  held  out.  In  a 
conspicuous  box  was  seen  the  worthy  landlord  of  the  the- 
atre, naturally  a  shy  and  retiring  man,  induced  to  attend 
by  the  beneficiaire's  persuasions.  The  performance  began 
and  proceeded.  Elliston  exerted  all  his  abilities,  and  the 
programme  was  being  gradually  got  through,  when  the 
audience  began  to  grow  impatient  for  the  promised  enter- 
tainment. Cries  of  "The  Fireworks!  The  Fireworks!" 
were  raised,  of  which  no  notice  was  at  first  taken — as 
though  it  was  some  vulgar  interruption  from  overcrowding, 
or  other  cause.  The  cries,  however,  growing  more  persist- 
ent, and  finally  swelling  into  an  uproar,  could  not  be  fur- 
ther ignored.  Then  Elliston,  patting  on  his  great  manner, 
32 


374 


THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 


came  forward.  Then  came  the  usual  pantomime — surprise, 
admirably  depicted,  lifting  the  eyebrows — a  wish  to  hear 
every  one.  The  fireworks? — He  at  last  apprehended  the 
cause  of  this  discontent,  and  proceeded  to  his  explanation. 
He  had  made  the  most  elaborate  arrangements  for  a  mag- 
nificent pyrotechnic  display — had  left  nothing  undone  : 
but  at  the  last  moment  came  the  reflection — what  of  the 
danger  !  The  number  of  young,  tender  girls — of  respect- 
able matrons — all  collected  to  do  him  honor — what  if  the 
theatre  should  take  fire  and  be  burnt  to  the  ground — the 
property  too  of  one  of  the  best  and  worthiest  of  men, 
whom  they  all  knew — and  whom  he  knew.  Here  he 
pointed  out  the  landlord,  who  was  overwhelmed  with  con- 
fusion. He  then  publicly  appealed  to  him,  to  say  if  he  had 
not  interposed  for  the  protection  of  his  property  ;  and 
having  thus  artfully  diverted  attention  from  himself,  pro- 
ceeded to  launch  out  into  an  eloquent  panegyric  on  his 
merits.  The  audience  were  gradually  soothed  into  good- 
humor — the  ladies — being  convinced  that  they  had  escaped 
a  great  danger — taking  his  side.  "  BUT,"  he  said  in  con- 
clusion, "  But — ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  am  happy  to  say  I 
have  made  arrangements  that  will  in  some  way  make  up  for 
this  disappointment — BAND!"  looking  down  into  the  or- 
chestra, where  three  wretched  fiddlers  furnished  the  whole 
strength  of  the  music — "Band!  Play  up  'God  Save  the 
King'  directly  !"  Under  the  spell  of  this  curious  fascina- 
tion— that  genuine  belief  in  himself — every  one  in  the 
house  rose.  He  stood  there  in  an  attitude  of  loyalty  al- 
most devotional,  while  that  stirring  air  was  played ;  and 
then,  as  though  he  had  done  more  than  he  had  covenanted 
— retired. 

On  another  occasion  at  Birmingham,  when  his  theatrical 
affairs  were  in  a  very  disastrous  condition,  he  again  con- 
jured successfully  with  the  same  charm.  He  had  announced 


ELLISTON. 


375 


a  "  Bohemian,  of  unexampled  Strength  and  Stature,"  who, 
amongst  other  evolutionary  feats,  would  display  his  facile 
manipulation  of  a  huge  stone,  of  near  a  ton  weight,  which 
he  was  to  handle  like  a  tennis-ball!  The  "Bohemian" 
was  stated  as  having  been  received  with  favor  and  distinc- 
tion in  various  Rhenish  States,  and  had  actually  felled  an 
ox  by  a  blow  of  his  naked  fist,  to  lighten  the  ennui  of  a 
German  princess. 

"The  Bohemian,  'begot  of  nothing  but  vain  phantasy,' 
being,  in  other  words,  the  offspring  of  the  manager's 
imagination,  might  indeed  fairly  have  been  denominated 
a  prodigy.  Typical  of  himself,  the  'Bohemian'  was  adver- 
tised in  gigantic  letters,  while  sundry  portraits,  which  had 
been  originally  executed  for  the  proprietors  of  the  '  Sara- 
cen's Head*  Inn,  London,  were  placarded  about  the  town, 
with  the  sub-lineation,  'THE  BOHEMIAN!' 

"  The  Birmingham  people,  who  were  beginning  to  sicken 
at  tragedy,  were  wonderfully  revived  by  this  extimulation ; 
the  Bohemian,  with  his  fist,  was  certainly  'a  hit,'  and  the 
edifice  was  as  full  on  the  night  of  his  promised  appearance 
as  though  the  Emperor  of  Austria  himself  had  been  ex- 
pected. The  play,  '  Pizarro,'  had  but  a  poor  chance — 
'The  Bohemian!  The  Bohemian!'  from  the  tongues  of 
tiie  spectators,  completely  drowned  the  words  of  the  actors, 
— which,  with  considerable  foresight,  they  had  only  half 
studied  for  the  occasion.  Down  fell  the  curtain,  and  'The 
Bohemian  !'  instantaneously  broke  out  with  fresh  violence. 
The  fiddlers  struck  up  '  The  Battle  of  Prague,'  and  every 
nerve  was  now  attuned  to  the  pancratic  efforts  which  had 
been  promised. 

"At  this  juncture,  Elliston,  pale  with  consternation, 
which  would  have  extorted  pity  from  the  original  Saracen 
himself,  stepped  forward,  and,  with  suppliant  palms,  ad- 
dressed the  assembly : 


376  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

"'The  Bohemian  has  deceived  me!'  said  he — 'that  I 
could  have  pardoned ;  but  he  has  deceived  my  friends — he 
has  deceived  you  /' — at  which  he  buried  his  face  in  his 
handkerchief;  but  to  hide  what  emotion  we  will  not  hazard 
a  guess.  'The  Bohemian,  I  repeat,  has  deceived  us — he  is 
not  here  ;'  a  certain  smouldering  now  agitated  the  body  of 
spectators.  Elliston  went  on — 'And  the  man,  of  whatever 
name  or  nation  he  may  be,  who  violates  his  word,  commits 

an  offence  which '  here  an  outbreak  took  place  which 

completely  annihilated  the  rest  of  his  aphoristic  sentence. 
He  then  proceeded  : 

"  'Anxious  for  your  gratification,  I  entered  into  corre- 
spondence with  the  faithless  foreigner,  who  was  this  day  to 
have  appeared.'  (A  yell,  which,  in  another  place,  would 
be  denominated  ironical  cheers.}  'The  correspondence, 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  is  in  my  pocket.'  (An  incredulous 
laugh.)  '  I'll  read  it  to  you."  Here  he  produced  a  variety 
of  papers  resembling  letters.  ('  Read  !  read  ! — No  !  no  ! — 
Imposition  !')  '  Here  they  are,'  continued  Elliston,  with 
one  of  his  most  cunning  looks ;  '  does  any  gentleman 
present  read  German  ? — if  so,  would  he  honor  me  by  step- 
ping forward?'  (A  scream  of  merriment.)  'Am  I  left 
alone  ?  Then  I'll  translate  it  for  you.'  ('  No  !  no  !  enough  ! 
Go  on,  Elliston!')  'I  obey;  the  correspondence  shall 
not  be  read' — here  he  deliberately  replaced  the  bundle  in 
his  pocket — 'but,  ladies  and  gentlemen,'  continued  he, 
with  a  smile  which  could  have  leveled  the  Andes,  '  the 
stone  is  here  !  You  shall  see  it !'  (A  volcanic  burst.) 
'  You  shall  yet  be  satisfied ;  you  are  my  patrons,  and  have 
a  right  to  demand  it.  Shall  the  stone  be  produced?' 
(Cries  of  'The  stone!  the  stone!')  Here  the  manager 
winked  his  gray  eye  at  the  fiddlers,  who  again  hastily  betook 
themselves  to  'The  Battle  of  Prague,'  when  up  sprang  the 
curtain,  disclosing  a  sand-rock,  which,  for  weight  and 


ELLISTON.  377 

magnitude,  would  positively  have  made  *  Bonemia  nothing .'" 
and  bearing  a  scroll,  '  This  is  tkt  stone  f  Good-humor, 
even  confidence,  seemed  restored.  Here  was  indeed  Ae 
stow,  and  imagination  did  all  the  rest." 

The  variety  of  his  extravagance  was  always  infinite.  On 
one  occasion  he  announced  to  his  surprised  patrons,  thai 
he  had  been  given  to  understand  that  his  Royal  Highness 
the  Prince  Regent  would  confer  on  him  the  honor  of 
knighthood,  and  that  when  he  next  appeared  before  them 
the  bill  would  probably  run  "Sir  John  Falstaff  by  Sir 
Robert  EUistoa."  There  was  no  doubt  he  was  sincere  in 
these -extraordinary  flourishes,  and  that  when  be  found 
himself  for  the  moment  the  centre  of  attraction,  the  lights, 
the  laces  diverted  to  him,  he  felt  himself  transported  into 
a  sort  of  fairy  realm,  where  all  things  possible  became  real, 
and  his  loftiest  and  most  soaring  dreams  assumed  consist- 
ence. The  little  brief  authority  in  which  he  was  dressed 
seemed  to  stretch  beyond  the  walls  of  the  theatre.  A  most 
characteristic  specimen  of  his  "greater  style"  was  a  vale- 
dictory address  to  the  Leicester  audience.  There  is  a 
freshness  and  originality  in  his  turns,  and  certainly  a 
grandeur  which  he  tempered  by  condescension.  It  will  be 
seen  how  admirably  he  carried  off  the  want  of  coherence 
in  such  addresses  by  importing  a  sort  of  fervor. 

"Ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  said,  "the  painful  moment 
of  our  separation  has  arrived.  That  I  have  been  indulgent 
to  you,  there  is  no  denying — some  say  I  have  spoilt  yon. 
It  was  in  this  city,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  that  that  remark- 
able character,  Cardinal  Wolsey,  laid  down  his  glory  and 
his  bones.  Can  I  do  better  than  employ  his  words  in 
honor  of  our  present  illustrious  Regent?  *  He  is  a  prince 
of  a  most  royal  carriage,  and  hath  a  princely  heart ;'  to 
this  let  me  add,  God  bless  him ! 

"  I  would  remind  you  that  your  late  worshipful  mayor, 
32* 


378  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

Mr.  Wilcox,  and  myself,  were  schoolfellows.  The  loss  of 
him,  you  yourselves  cannot  deplore  more  than  I  do,  and 
now,  'beyond  that  bourne  from  which  no  traveler  returns,' 
we  have  only  to  hope  that  he  is  happy  !"  (Here  the  ora- 
tor wiped  his  eyes.)  "  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  once  again 
I  bid  you  respectfully — affectionately,  farewell !" 

So  when  two  rival  heroines — "the  Giroux"  and  "the 
Taylor" — engaged  together  at  his  Surrey-side  theatre,  in 
pantomime,  had  each  their  band  of  admirers,  who  crowded 
the  house  for  nightly  riots  and  confusion,  the  crafty  Ellis- 
ton  stimulated  the  jealousy  and  partisanship  which  was  so 
favorable  to  his  treasury.  Every  night  the  storm  raged ; 
the  hackney  coaches  of  the  hostile  fair  ones  were  attended 
to  the  stage  door  by  mobs,  and  saluted  with  cheers  and 
hisses,  while  within  the  theatre  fierce  battles  were  fought. 
Elliston,  enchanted  at  the  opportunities  thus  offered,  was 
in  his  element,  speeching  from  the  stage,  and  inflaming 
while  he  affected  to  control.  An  appeal  which  "  the  Gi- 
roux" made  to  her  admirers  was  known  to  have  been  the 
manager's  composition.  It  is  Ellistonian  all  over. 

"SURREY  THEATRE. 

"Miss  Giroux,  deeply  deploring  the  display  of  a  spirit 
in  this  theatre  which,  however  flattering,  is  by  no  means 
calculated  to  serve  her  who  is  the  object  of  it,  presumes 
publicly  to  declare  that  she  has,  neither  personally  nor 
otherwise,  encouraged  any  hostility  to  the  professional 
pretensions  of  a  young  person  called  Taylor. 

"  Miss  Giroux  takes  the  liberty  to  request  that  the  en- 
lightened portion  of  the  British  public,  which  does  her  the 
honor  to  approve  her  performances,  will  add  to  so  proud  a 
distinction  the  favor  of  abstaining  from  an  unseemly  con- 
test, nor 


ELLISTOX. 


379 


'  Mix  with  hired  slaves,  bravos,  and  common 

but  allow,  at  once,  MIND  to  triumph  over  MATTER ! 

"  N.B. — Miss  Giroux  is  not  aware,  tiiat  in  this  generous 
nation  it  is  disreputable  to  be  either  a  Jew  or  a  foreigner ; 
but  attempts  have  been  made  to  fix  on  her  the  stigma  of 
both !  Miss  Giroux  is  by  no  means  a  Jew,  and  has  the  hap- 
piness, moreover,  of  being  born  an  English  young  lady." 

When  he  thought  matters  had  gone  far  enough,  and  the 
excitement  was  beginning  to  flag,  he  came  forward  and 
announced  that  "  on  the  following  night  1u  would  himself 
give  judgment  in  the  case  /"  And  when  he  appeared  on 
this  important  occasion,  he  called  haughtily  to  the  promp- 
ter, "  Bring  me  a  chair  5"  and  a  sort  of  judicial  throne 
was  placed  for  him,  into  which  he  sank,  and  began  gravely 
to  ''sum  up."  Burlesque  could  not  farther  go — but  on 
the  rude  natives  of  the  "  Surrey  side"  such  fine  irony  was 
thrown  away.  Their  coarse  natures  could  only  appreciate 
vulgar  matter  of  fact.  The  "giving  judgment  in  the 
case"  was  scarcely  found  intelligible,  and  produced  fresh 
uproar.  For  many  more  nights  manager  and  mob  con- 
tended with  each  other  in  extravagance  and  riot,  until  the 
confusion  became  a  nuisance  to  the  neighborhood,  and  the 
authorities  were  compelled  to  interfere. 

The  story  oftenest  told  to  illustrate  the  magnificence  of 
his  self-delusion,  was  the  one  associated  with  the  dramatic 
pageant  which  he  got  up  at  Drury  Lane  in  honor  of  the 
King's  coronation.  It  was  sumptuously  produced,  and 
extraordinarily  successful.  The  excitement,  the  applause, 
the  handsome  coronation  robes  which  he  wore — Elliston 
represented  his  Majesty — and  the  elaborate  theatrical  state, 
all  in  his  honor — coextensive  in  some  degree  with  his  actual 
authority  as  the  employer  or  master  of  all  these  stage  mer- 
cenaries— combined  to  settle  the  delusion  in  his  wits  that 


38o 


THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 


he  was  the  King !  As  the  roars  of  applause  burst  from  the 
packed  galleries  and  pit,  and  the  stately  monarch  came 
down  to  the  front,  last  in  the  procession,  he  felt  himself 
transported  with  pride  and  gratitude,  and  said  aloud, 
" 'Bless ye  my  people  /"  He  later  struck  a  medal  for  distri- 
bution among  the  audience,  in  imitation  of  the  greater 
precedent  at  Westminster. 

It  was  curious  to  note  how  lofty  a  dignity,  with  some- 
thing approaching  to  meanness,  were  found  in  this  singular 
character.  Yet  there  seemed  to  be  nothing  inconsistent  in 
this  combination,  both  extremes  being  in  harmony  with  the 
nature  of  Robert  William  Elliston.  He  ranged  from  the 
full-blown  dignity  of  lessee  of  one  of  the  great  theatres,  to 
the  directorship  of  what  was  little  more  than  a  barn  at 
Buxton,  with  the  same  complacency.  "  It  was  my  for- 
tune," says  Lamb,  "to  encounter  him  near  St.  Dunstan's 
Church  on  the  morning  of  his  election  to  that  high  office. 
Grasping  my  hand  with  a  look  of  significance,  he  only 
uttered,  'Have  you  heard  the  news?' — then  with  another 
look  following  up  the  blow,  he  subjoined  'lam  the  future 
manager  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre.'  Breathless  as  he  saw 
me,  he  stayed  not  for  congratulation  or  reply,  but  mutely 
stalked  away,  leaving  me  to  chew  upon  his  new-blown  dig- 
nities at  leisure.  In  fact,  nothing  could  be  said  to  it.  ... 
This  was  in  his  great  style."  The  truth  was  he  was  so 
settled  in  the  conviction  of  his  own  elegant  superiority, 
that  the  mere  material  accidents  of  size  or  state  were  indif- 
ferent to  him.  He  lived  in  the  delightful  dream  that  they 
must  also  be  matters  of  indifference  to  those  who  were  con- 
tent to  accept  him.  Thus  in  his  little  booth  at  Leamington 
he  would  treat  his  "patrons,"  with  a  pleasant  absence  of 
ceremony,  according  to  his  humor,  and  would  invite  them 
to  such  pieces  as  "Three  Weeks  after  Marriage,"  "with 
only  himself,  one  lady,  a  couple  of  amateur  tradesmen,  and 


ELLISTON.  381 

the  doorkeeper's  son"  to  fill  the  various  parts.  It  was 
enough  that  he  was  the  entertainment.  In  another  piece, 
where  there  was  a  more  serious  deficiency,  he  condescended 
to  greater  exertion,  and  delivered  the  words  of  nearly  every 
character.  The  amateur  tradesmen,  doorkeeper's  son,  &c., 
were  enjoined  to  watch  him,  to  go  off,  or  come  on  at  his 
signals,  while  he  repeated  their  portion  of  the  dialogue,  as 
though  they  were  marionettes  which  he  worked.  The 
device  was  perfectly  successful. 

A  certain  decay,  however,  always  attends  the  career  of 
"  pleasant  creatures"  such  as  Elliston.  There  is  a  tolera- 
tion of  these  exuberances — as  in  the  case  of  Sheridan  and 
Hook — so  long  as  the  sense  of  novelty  lasts,  but  they  must 
then  accept  degradation,  which  is  all  the  grosser,  because 
contrasted  with  their  airy  natures,  fondly  supposed  to  be 
privileged.  On  account  of  some  slight  arrear  in  his  rent, 
he  was  summarily  thrust  out  of  his  great  theatre  at  Drury. 
This  at  least  was  the  pretext,  though  it  is  probable  that  the 
amateur  directors,  the  Douglas  Kinnairds  and  the  rest,  were 
eager  to  close  their  connection  with  one  who  indulged  in 
such  curious  antics.  The  deposed  monarch  submitted  with 
dignity  to  his  altered  state,  and  retired  to  his  old  house  on 
the  Surrey-side.  It  was  there  that  he  told  Douglas  Jerrold, 
who  was  pressing  for  some  remuneration  on  the  astounding 
success  of  "Black-eyed  Susan" — which  had  run  over  two 
hundred  nights — that  "he  ought  to  get  his  friends  to  pre- 
sent him  with  a  piece  of  plate."  This  has  often  been  told 
in  this  detached  shape,  as  a  specimen  of  the  ingratitude 
and  rapaciousness  of  managers.  But  how  different  does  it 
appear  when  read  in  connection  with  the  character  we  have 
just  been  considering.  It  is  really  appropriate,  and  in  an 
Elliston  not  unfeeling.  It  was  the  airy  speech  of  a  gay 
gentleman  in  comedy — some  Chesterfield  on  the  stage. 

Nothing  daunted  by  his  reverse  he  gave  his  little  senate 


382 


THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 


laws  from  the  boards  of  the  Surrey.  Here  he  again  speeched 
and  descanted. 

"  On  one  evening,"  says  Mr.  Raymond,*  "  pending  the 
representation  of  a  very  serious  piece,  a  sailor  elevated,  in 
every  sense  of  the  word,  frequently  interrupted  the  progress 
of  the  play,  and  annoyed  the  audience  by  exclamations  of 
dissatisfaction  and  sundry  noises  peculiar  to  gentlemen  of 
the  sea.  At  length  Elliston  appeared  on  the  stage  :  — 

"'May  I  know  the  cause  of  this  unseemly  clamor?' 
asked  he. 

"(Voice  from  the  gallery). — 'It's  this  here  sailor  what 
makes  the  row.' 

"  ''A  British  sailor  ! — the  glory  of  our  country's  annals  ! — 
the  safeguard  of  our  homes  and  families  !  What  is  it  he  asks  ?' 

"  'Rule  Britannia!'  roared  the  tar. 

"'You  shall  have  it!'  emphatically  pronounced  the 
manager.  'Of  what  ship,  comrade?' 

"  '  The  HaggermemnonJ  again  roared  our  son  of  Neptune. 

"'Ladies  and  gentlemen,'  continued  the  manager,  ad- 
vancing a  few  steps  forward  with  imperturbable  assurance, 
'  on  Monday  next,  a  nautical,  national,  allegorical  sketch 
will  be  represented  at  this  theatre,  entitled,  "The  British 
Flag!"  in  which  the  whole  strength  of  the  company  will 
be  employed.  The  music  expressly  composed  by  Mr.  Ble- 
witt.  Give  'em  "Rule  Britannia,"'  concluded  he,  with 
a  nod  to  the  musicians.  '  Bring  your  companions  here  on 
Monday,'  cried  Elliston,  with  a  wink  at  the  sailor,  which 
having  done,  he  strode  off  the  stage." 

"  Rule  Britannia"  was  immediately  sung  "by  the  whole 
strength  of  the  company,"  and  the  play  was  resumed.  As 
to  the  .nautical  sketch,  it  is  needless  to  say  this  was  the 
momentary  suggestion  of  the  manager1  s  untiring  fancy. 

"On  another  evening  too  many  persons  having  been 

*  In  his  pleasant  memoir  from  which  is  taken  much  of  this  article. 


ELLISTON.  383 

admitted  to  the  gallery,  occasioned  much  altercation,  and 
totally  prevented  the  performers  from  being  heard. 

"Elliston  came  forward  as  usual,  and  thus  addressed  the 
audience : — 

"  'Ladies  and  gentlemen, — I  take  the  liberty  of  address- 
ing you.  It  is  of  rare  occurrence  that  I  deem  it  necessary 
to  place  myself  in  juxtaposition  with  you.  (Noise  in  tht gal- 
lery.) When  I  said  juxtaposition,  I  meant  ris-d-ris.  ( In- 
creased noise  in  the  gallery.)  When  I  uttered  the  words 
ms-d-ris,  I  meant  contactability.  Now  let  me  tell  you  that 
vis-a-vis  (it  is  a  French  term)  and  contactability  (which  is 
a  truly  English  term)  very  nearly  assimilate  to  each  other. 
(The  disturbance  above  redoubled.)  Gentlemen  ! — Gentle- 
men !  I  am  really  ashamed  of  your  conduct.  It  is  unlike 
a  Surrey  audience.  Are  you  aware  that  I  have  in  this 
establishment  most  efficient  peace-officers  at  my  immediate 
disposal?  Peace-officers,  gentlemen,  mean  persons  neces- 
sary in  time  of  war. 

'"One  word  more,'  said  he,  returning;  'if  that  tall 
gentleman,  in  the  carpenter's  cap,  will  sit  down  [pointing 
to  the  pit],  the  little  girl  behind  him,  in  red  ribbons  (you, 
my  love,  I  mean),  will  be  able  to  see  the  entertainment.' 

"  This  oration  produced  the  desired  effect,  and  Elliston, 
after  bowing  most  respectfully,  as  he  always  did  when  he  had 
made  an  impudent  speech,  retired  to  spend  his  afternoon." 

Even  drunkenness  used  to  affect  him  in  a  highly  fantastic 
way,  and  was  different  from  the  intoxication  of  ordinary 
men.  It  was  more  like  the  freaks  of  extravagance.  No 
such  singular  scene  as  the  following  could  be  conceived. 

"  The  2d  of  May  was  fixed  for  a  royal  visit  to  the  thea- 
tre. The  King  had  held  a  drawing-room  at  Buckingham 
Palace  on  the  morning  of  this  day,  and  a  few  untoward 
events,  added  to  the  fatigue  consequent  on  the  ceremony, 
found  his  Majesty  not  in  the  most  serene  temper  of  mind 


384  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

on  his  return  to  Carlton  House.  By  the  King's  desire, 
however,  the  captain  of  the  escort,  Lord  William  Lennox, 
rode  immediately  abreast  the  window  of  the  royal  carriage  ; 
an  arrangement  wisely  made,  for,  on  the  morning,  as  the 
august  party  were  passing  the  entrance  to  the  stable-yard, 
a  missile  was  projected  at  the  King's  person,  which  struck 
the  captain  of  the  escort.  The  gallant  captain,  however, 
shook  his  plumes,  and  all  was  well  again. 

"The  rush  into  the  theatre  was  tremendous.  Consider- 
able uproar,  from  various  parts  of  the  house,  ensued,  on 
disputed  seats  and  packed  benches,  which,  just  as  the  King 
entered  his  box,  being  at  spring-tide,  his  Majesty  felt  im- 
pressed was  chiefly  directed  towards  his  own  person.  The 
Lord  Chamberlain  at  once  perceived  the  King's  feeling, 
and  instantly  requested  his  vice-official,  the  Marquess 
Graham,  to  descend,  and  at  once  see  the  manager,  that 
the  uproar  might  be  appeased  by  explanation.  Lord 
Graham  now  hastened  to  the  stage,  where,  meeting  Ellis- 
ton  in  full  costume,  and  totally  forgetting  he  was  accosting 
a  crowned  head,  exclaimed — 

"  '  Mr.  Elliston,  this  is  disgraceful  !  You  should  have 
prevented  this  excess.  The  King  is  vexed,  and  will  never 
again  come  to  Drury  Lane.' 

"This  speech,  addressed  as  it  was  with  considerable 
acrimony  to  Elliston,  surrounded  by  many  distinguished 
strangers  and  followers  of  the  court,  besides  troops  of  his 
own  subjects,  very  sensibly  nettled  him.  He  replied  with 
equal  warmth,  but  ten  times  greater  dignity;  when,  at  that 
moment,  espying  Lord  William  Lennox,  he  added — 

"  '  Now,  my  Lord  Graham,  I  have  a  friend  ;  my  wounded 
honor  I  shall  place  in  the  hands  of  Lord  William  ;'  which 
having  said,  he  sweepingly  led  the  way  across  the  stage 
into  his  own  private  room ;  the  captain  of  the  guard  fol- 
lowing. Lord  William  en  cuirass ;  Elliston  '  with  his  sword 


ELL/STON.  - : : 

by  his  side;1  fall  bottles  and  empty  bottles— (be  long- 
necked  Champagne  and  the  rash-covered  Curacoa — plays, 
poetry,  and  the  'London  Gazette' — fens,  tippets,  and 
handkerchief  *  of  the  smallest  spider's  web/  formed  the 
strangest  confasion  of  effects. 

"  Elliston  now  entered  grandiloquently  into  the  nature 
of  his  grievances;  but  his  friend  soon  perceiving  that, 
though  the  vice-chamberlain  might  have  wounded  the  dig- 
nity of  the  manager,  Moet  had  dearly  disordered  his  wits  ; 
he  gave  him,  therefore,  certain  advice,  which  produced  the 
following: 

"  *  Yon  are  right,  my  lord.  The  deputy  has  affronted 
me,  and  a  dfputr  shall  reply  to  it.  My  stage-manager  shall 
take  up  the  question  in  its  present  shape.  I  shall  meet  no 
one  but  the  Lord  Chamberlain  himself.  My  lord,  a  glass 
of  Madeira?' 

"  The  curtain  had  fallen  on  the  night's  entertainment — 
the  King  had  returned  to  Carlton  House — the  escort  to  the 
Horse  Guards  ;  and  it  being  now  one  o'clock  of  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  the  captain  had  doffed  his  leathern  pan- 
taloons and  huge  jack-boots,  preparing  himself  for  repose, 
when  a  sharp  knock  was  heard  at  his  chamber  door. 

"  •  Who's  there?"  interrogated  the  captain,  not  a.  little 
disinclined  to  intrusion  at  such  an  hour. 

" « One  of  his  Majesty's  secretaries  of  state,  my  lord, 
on  urgent  business,'  replied  the  sergeant. 

•-'*  What  can  it  mean  ?'  murmured  the  Horse  Guardsman. 

'"I  know  not,  my  lord,  but  he  said  it  was  on  business — 
"  vital,"  I  think  was  the  word.  The  gentleman  is  now  in 
the  sitting-room.' 

"To  the  sitting-room  Lord  William  immediately  pro- 
ceeded, when  he  beheld,  seated  in  an  arm-chair,  no  less  a 
personage  than  the  monarch  of  Drnry  Lone— King  William 
Elliston !  in  the  same  court  gear  in  which  he  had  a  few 
r  33 


386  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

hours  before  attended  the  monarchy  of  Great  Britain  ;  but 
a  little  damaged. 

"'I  have  taken  the  liberty,'  observed  Elliston,  in  a 
manner  even  more  impressive  than  his  usual  delivery, 
'  during  your  lordship's  delay,  of  ordering  a  weak  glass  of 
brandy  and  water  from  the  canteen.' 

"  Here  the  manager  paused  to  sip  his  mixture.  '  My  lord, 
we  must  go  out  this  very  morning — I  am  steady  to  my  pur- 
pose,' added  he,  reeling  actually  in  his  chair. 

"  Lord  William  now  perceived  that  a  confused  recollec- 
tion of  Lord  Graham's  affront  had  brought  Elliston,  drunk 
as  a  lord,  from  the  theatre  to  the  Horse  Guards :  there  to 
renew  the  story,  and  pass  the  remainder  of  a  quiet  evening. 

"Lord  William  now  pursued  the  same  policy  he  had 
taken  in  the  manager's  room;  namely,  representing  that  it 
was  utterly  impossible  the  monarch  of  Drury  Lane  could 
go  out  with  any  deputy  whatever ;  and  that,  if  he  did,  so 
far  from  his  honor  being  vindicated,  it  would  be  more 
deeply  involved. 

"  To  this  Elliston  listened  as  to  a  perfectly  new  proposi- 
tion, and  fixing  his  eyes  steadily  on  Lord  William  during 
a  very  lengthened  pause — at  last  said — 

"  '  But,  my  lord — there  is  one  question  yet.' 

"  '  Name  it  by  all  means.' 

"  '  Might  I  suggest  one  more  tumbler  of  brandy  and 
water  ?' 

"  Lord  William  gave  assent  for  a  replenish  of  the  glass, 
which  the  canteen  man,  having  an  eye  to  business,  presently 
supplied. 

"Elliston  having  liberally  tasted  of  this  'refresher,' 
committed  himself  to  the  confidence  of  another  pause, 
after  which  he  said — 

"  '  And  now,  my  lord,  I  would  beg  to  ask,  in  which  of 
the  royal  parks  do  you  propose  the  meeting  ?' 


ELLISTON.  387 

"'Windsor,  by  all  means,'  replied  the  captain — 'and 
what  will  be  still  more  fitting,  you  shall  fight  under 
"  Herne's  Oak,"  and  so  make  Shakespeare  himse.f  one  of 
the  party.1 

"  Elision  gazed  for  a  moment,  perfectly  overcome  by 
the  sublimity  of  the  proposition,  and  then,  with  a  very 
'  (argone"  impresstmemt  of  manner,  exclaimed — 

" '  Herne's  Oak  5  admirable !  my  lord — and  my  Lord 
Graham  shall  remember  the  words  of  Master  Page,  "  There 
be  many  who  do  fear  to  walk  by  this  Herne's  Oak !" ' — 
when  up  he  rose. 

'"Can  I  assist  you,  Elliston  ?*  asked  Lord  William, 
offering  him  his  cocked  hat,  and  disentangling  his  sword 
from  his  silken  legs. 

" '  By  no  means,'  replied  Elliston ;  '  but  your  man  is  a 
long  time  about  this  tumbler  of  brandy  and  water.' 

"'Nay,  nay,'  cried  Lord  William,  again  laughing,  *  you 
forget — you  have  already  dispatched  it ;  and  really,  as  it  is 

'"True,  true!'  interrupted  Elliston,  drawing  out  his 
watch,  and  looking  at  the  reverse  side  of  it ;  'we  most  be 
going — Lord  Graham  will  be  punctual — hair  triggers,  my 
lord — and  my  hand  is  steady  as  iron.' 

"'Hush!  Do  yon  know  what  day  this  is?— Sunday 
morning.' 

" '  Then,'  said  Elliston,  '  your  man  is  the  more  repre- 
hensible in  his  delay  of  mixing  this  brandy  and  water.' 

"  After  some  further  difficulty,  the  manager  was  placed 
in  the  hackney-coach.  '  You'll  follow,  my  lord  ?•  said  he, 
in  a  confidential  whisper. 

"'Certainly.' 

" '  Then,  I  am  content.  To  Shooter's  Hill !'  exclaimed 
the  manager  to  the  coachman — and  off  he  drove. 

"  The  next  morning,  or  rather  that  very  morning,  bv  ten 


388  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

o'clock,  Robert  William  Elliston,  in  full  possession  of  his 
energies,  and  far  more  alive  to  business  than  many  about 
him,  was  at  his  writing-table." 

In  the  course  of  the  morning  the  following  letter  reached 
him: — 

"  Chamberlain's  Office,  May  3. 

"  SIR,— 

"I  regret  to  have  heard  that  you  felt  hurt  at  some  ex- 
pression I  used  towards  you  last  evening.  This  was  far 
from  my  intention,  my  only  object  being  to  induce  you  to 
take  some  means  which  would  remedy  the  disorder  in  the 
pit  of  the  theatre ;  as  well  as  the  annoyance  which  it  was  to 
his  Majesty,  and  the  rest  of  the  audience.  I  feel  sorry  that 
you  should  have  misconceived  me  so  as  to  suppose  I  would 
intentionally  have  said  anything  disagreeable  to  you. 
"  I  remain,  Sir,  your  obedient, 

"  GRAHAM." 

It  was  after  he  had  come  to  this  sad  complexion,  that  he 
was  so  present  to  Charles  Lamb,  whose  vivid  sketch  of  him 
finds  its  illustration  in  the  little  stories  just  narrated. — "My 
acquaintance,"  he  wrote,  "  with  the  pleasant  creature  whose 
loss  we  all  deplore,  was  but  slight. 

"But  was  he  less  great  when  in  melancholy  after-years, 
again,  much  near  the  same  spot,  I  met  him,  when  that 
sceptre  had  been  wrested  from  his  hand  and  his  dominion 
was  curtailed  to  the  petty  managership,  and  part-proprie- 
torship, of  the  small  Olympic,  his  Elba  ?  He  still  played 
nightly  upon  the  boards  of  Drury,  but  in  parts,  alas !  al- 
lotted to  him,  not  magnificently  distributed  by  him.  Waiv- 
ing his  great  loss  as  nothing,  and  magnificently  sinking  the 
sense  of  fallen  material  grandeur  in  the  more  liberal  resent- 
ment of  depreciations  done  to  his  more  lofty  intellectual 
pretensions,  '  Have  you  heard'  (his  customary  exordium), 


ELLISTON.  389 

— '  have  you  heard,1  said  he,  '  how  they  treat  me  ?  they  put 
me  in  comedy*  Thought  I — but  his  finger  on  his  lips  for- 
bade any  verbal  interruption — '  where  could  they  have  put 
you  better?*  Then,  after  a  pause —  '  where  I  formerly 
played  Romeo,  I  now  play  Mercutio,' — and  so  again  he 
stalked  away,  neither  staying,  nor  caring  for,  responses. 

"  O,  it  was  a  rich  scene — but  Sir  Astley  Cooper,  the 
best  of  storytellers  and  surgeons,  who  mends  a  lame  nar- 
rative almost  as  well  as  he  sets  a  fracture,  alone  could  do 
justice  to  it — that  I  was  witness  to,  in  the  tarnished  room 
(that  had  once  been  green)  of  that  same  little  Olympic. 
There,  after  his  deposition  from  imperial  Drury,  he  sub- 
stituted a  throne.  That  Olympic  Hill  was  his  'highest 
heaven ;'  himself,  'Jove  in  his  chair.*  There  he  sat  in 
state,  while  before  him,  on  complaint  of  the  prompter, 
was  brought  for  judgment — how  shall  I  describe  her  ? — one 
of  those  little  tawdry  things  that  flirt  at  the  tails  of  choruses 
— a  probationer  for  the  town,  in  either  of  its  senses — the 
pertest  little  drab — a  dirty  fringe  and  appendage  of  the 
lamps'  smoke — who,  it  seems,  on  some  disapprobation  ex- 
pressed by  a  '  a  highly  respectable*  audience,  had  precipi- 
tately quitted  her  station  on  the  boards,  and  withdrawn 
her  small  talents  in  disgust. 

"  'And  how  dare  yon,'  said  her  manager — assuming  a 
censorial  severity  which  would  have  crushed  the  confidence 
of  a  Vestris,  and  disarmed  that  beautiful  rebel  herself  of 
her  professional  caprices — I  very  believe,  he  thought  her 
standing  before  him — '  how  dare  you,  madam,  withdraw 
yourself,  without  a  notice,  from  your  theatrical  duties?' 
'I  was  hissed,  sir.'  'And  you  have  the  presumption  to  de- 
cide upon  the  taste  of  the  town  ?'  '  I  don't  know  that, 
sir,  but  1  will  never  stand  to  be  hissed,'  was  the  snbjoinder 
of  young  Confidence.  When  gathering  up  his  features  into 
one  significant  mass  of  wonder,  pity,  and  expostulatory 
33* 


390 


THE  ROMANCE   OF   THE  STAGE. 


indignation — in  a  lesson  never  to  have  been  lost  upon  a 
creature  less  forward  than  she  who  stood  before  him — his 
words  were  these :  '  They  have  hissed  me. ' 

"  '  Quite  an  Opera  pit,'  he  said  to  me,  as  he  was  cour- 
teously conducting  me  over  the  benches  of  his  Surrey  The- 
atre, the  last  retreat,  and  recess  of  his  every-day-waning 
grandeur. 

"Those  who  knew  Elliston,  will  know  the  manner  in 
which  he  pronounced  the  latter  sentence  of  the  few  words 
I  am  about  to  record.  One  proud  day  to  me,  he  took  his 
roast  mutton  with  us  in  the  Temple,  to  which  I  had  super- 
added  a  preliminary  haddock.  After  a  rather  plentiful 
partaking  of  the  meagre  banquet,  not  unrefreshed  with  the 
humbler  sort  of  liquors,  I  made  a  sort  of  apology  for  the 
humility  of  the  fare,  observing  that  for  my  own  part  I  never 
ate  but  one  dish  at  dinner.  '  I  too  never  eat  but  one  thing 
at  dinner' — was  his  reply — then  after  a  pause — 'reckoning 
fish  as  nothing.'  The  manner  was  all.  It  was  as  if  by 
one  peremptory  sentence  he  had  decreed  the  annihilation 
of  all  the  savory  esculents  which  the  pleasant  and  nutritious 
food-giving  Ocean  pours  forth  upon  poor  humans  from  her 
watery  bosom." 

But  the  most  quaint  and  farcical  of  his  schemes  was  the 
opening  of  what  he  called  a  "Literary  Association"  at 
Bristol.  What  special  twist  in  what  Mr.  Shandy  would 
call  his  "  pericraniacks"  suggested  this  notion,  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say  :  yet  somehow  it  seems  in  harmony  with  his 
character.  He  might  wish  to  stretch  beyond  his  profes- 
sion :  to  play  the  graceful  litterateur,  a  part  in  which  he 
felt  that  he  could  not  hope  to  win  credit  otherwise  than  by 
professing  it  in  this  tangible  shape.  This  institution  which 
he  thus  grandly  named  was,  in  more  sober  phrase,  a  Cir- 
culating Library.  The  premises  had  been  a  pickle  shop, 
which  he  recklessly  purchased  for  the  sum  of  ^1600.  The 


ELLISTON.  391 

back  parlor  he  styled  THE  LYCEUM,  which  he  invited  all 
that  was  refined  and  literary  in  Bristol  to  frequent,  so  as  to 
acquire  a  "  sweetness  and  light"  that  was  sadly  wanting  to 
the  commercial-society  of  Bristol.  This  odd  speculation 
was  specially  Ellistonian — no  works  of  the  ordinary  pattern 
being  admitted,  the  accomplished  director  laying  out  large 
sums  in  the  purchase  not  merely  of  the  old  classical  writers, 
but  of  black-letter  volumes,  so  that  the  collection  should 
be  of  a  solid  and  important  character.  Antiquarian  works 
of  the  profoundest  sort — old  travels  of  the  early  naviga- 
tors— rare  editions  of  English  plays,  were  the  inappropriate 
UCJBUIO  secured  for  the  heterogeneous  collection:  the 
collector  we  may  be  sure  justifying  each  addition  with 
flowing  comments  that  must  have  been  amusing  to  listen 
to.  Not  to  neglect  other  departments  of  knowledge,  he 
also  gathered  in  a  quantity  of  fossils,  shells,  Indian  curiosi- 
ties, arms,  &c.  (the  invariable,  but  somewhat  depressing, 
features  of  nearly  every  museum),  and  hung  up  with  a  sort 
of  pleased  triumph,  the  cynosure — a  CHINESE  GOXG. — No 
wonder,  it  must  be  said  again,  that  Charles  Lamb  was  infi- 
nitely interested  by  such  a  character — which  would  have 
figured  well  in  a  comedy. 

He  was  enthusiastic  in  the  scheme,  but  as  might  be  ex- 
pected, the  back-parlor  "Lyceum"  remained  empty.  It 
was  probably  considered  an  eccentricity.  It  failed — a 
broken  schoolmaster  of  the  name  of  Orrick  who  was  in 
charge,  going  off"  with  such  cash  as  there  was  in  the  con- 
cern. Yet  with  the  airy  projector,  we  may  be  certain  it 
always  remained  a  success — under  the  qualification  that  it 
had  done  all  that  he  had  intended,  the  seed  being  sown, 
&c.  Indeed,  he  presently  started  another  venture  of  the 
same  kind  at  Leamington  Spa,  though,  taught  by  experi- 
ence, he  conceded  something  to  the  practical  spirit  of 
business.  A  ragged  collection  of  novels  was  got  together, 


392  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

with  which  a  meagre  effort  in  the  direction  of  stationery, 
&c.,  was  combined.  The  whole  was  placed  under  the 
direction  of  his  two  sons.  This  sudden  diversion — from 
the  extreme  aesthetic  to  sober  prose  and  the  concrete — 
was  quite  in  keeping.  Hither  he  would  repair,  as  though 
to  relax  from  greater  cares,  and  even  assist  in  the  shop ; — 
and,  ever  acting,  thus  offer  to  the  Leamingtonian  ladies 
the  spectacle  of  one  of  his  degree,  and  graceful  bearing, 
stooping  to  such  condescension.  His  first  introduction  to 
Lamb  was  upon  this  occasion.  "  E.,  whom  nothing  mis- 
became— to  auspicate,  I  suppose,  the  filial  concern,  and 
set  it  going  with  a  lustre — was  serving  in  person  two  dam- 
sels fair,  who  had  come  into  the  shop,  ostensibly  to  inquire 
for  some  new  publication,  but  in  reality  to  have  a  sight  of 
the  illustrious  shopman,  hoping  some  conference.  With 
what  air  did  he  reach  down  the  volumes,  dispassionately 
giving  his  opinion  upon  the  work  in  question,  and  launch- 
ing out  into  a  dissertation  on  its  comparative  merits  with 
those  of  certain  publications  of  a  similar  stamp,  its  rival  ! 
his  enchanted  customers  fairly  hanging  on  his  lips,  sub- 
dued to  the  authoritative  sentence.  So  have  I  seen  a  gen- 
tleman in  comedy  acting  the  shopman." 

A  pleasant  pendant  is  Mr.  Raymond's  sketch  of  the 
elegant  "shopman." 

"  One  morning  he  descended  early  into  his  shop,  and 
looking  round  with  the  irresistible  humor  of  Tangent  him- 
self, 'It  is  my  cruel  fate,'  said  he,  'that  my  children  will 
be  gentlemen.'  And,  on  his  two  sons  making  their  ap- 
pearance, they  beheld  their  father,  in  an  old  dapple  gray 
frock-coat,  dusting  the  books,  arranging  the  ink-bottles, 
repiling  the  quires  of  'Bath  post,'  and  altering  the  posi- 
tion of  the  China  mandarins,  with  the  veriest  gravity  in 
the  world.  One  of  the  first  customers  that  came  in  was  a 
short,  dirty-faced  drab  of  a  maid-servant,  who  brought 


ELLISTON. 


393 


some  books  to  be  exchanged;  and  nearly  at  the  same 
moment,  a  sniveling  charity-boy,  with  a  large  patch  of 
diachylon  across  his  nose,  placed  himself  at  the  counter, 
demanding  other  articles. 

"  'One  at  a  time,'  said  Octarian,  with  petrifying  solem- 
nity. '  Now,  madam  ?'  pursued  he,  turning  to  the  runt. 

" ' Missus  a*  sent  back  these  here,  and  wants  summut 
'orrible.' 

"  'The  lady's  name?'  demanded  Elliston. 

"  ' Wiwian,'  grunted  the  girl. 

"  *  With  a  V  or  a  W?'  asked  Elliston  with  the  same  so- 
lemnity ;  but  the  wench  only  grinned  ;  when  up  mounted 
Sir  EJward  Mortimer  the  ladder  placed  against  his 
shelves,  and  withdrawing  two  wretchedly-torn  volumes, 
clapped  them  together  to  liberate  the  dust,  and  placing 
them  in  the  grubby  claws  of  the  now  half-frightened  girl 
— *  There,'  said  he,  'a  work  of  surpassing  terror;  and 
now,  sir,'  turning  to  the  boy,  '  I  will  attend  to  jou* 

"  The  lad,  who  had  by  this  time  nearly  pulled  the  plas- 
ter from  his  visage,  owing  to  the  nervous  state  of  agitation 
into  which  he  had  been  thrown,  could  not  at  the  precise 
moment  recollect  his  mission;  when  Elliston  repeated 
with  the  intonation  of  a  Merlin,  'And  now,  sir,  I  will 
attend  tojwv.' 

"  '  Half  a  quire  of  outsides  and  three  ha'porth  o*  mixed 
wafers,'  screamed  the  urchin,  throwing  fourpence-halfpenny 
on  the  counter. 

"•  Outsides,'  repeated  Elliston  to  his  son  William; 
1  mixed  wafers,'  said  he  in  the  same  tone  to  Henry. 

"  DoHcourt  then  demanded  the  paste-pot.  Taking  the 
brush,  he  first  deliberately  dabbed  the  lad's  nose,  thereby 
replacing  the  fallen  diachylon ;  and  then  seizing  a  watering- 
pot,  much  to  the  merriment  of  a  few  strangers  who  were  by 
this  time  collected  about  the  shop,  began  sprinkling  the 


394  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

steps  of  his  library  door.  Having  played  a  few  further 
antics,  the  '  Great  Lessee'  retired  to  answer  his  numerous 
London  correspondents  on  the  stupendous  affairs  of  Drury 
Lane." 

To  strangers,  whom  he  wished  to  impress  with  the  dignity 
of  his  position,  his  bearing  seemed  singular :  but  beneath 
it  was  a  method  and  a  meaning,  though  of  a  far-fetched, 
Ellistonian  kind.  Of  this  an  odd  illustration  is  recorded. 

A.  gentleman  of  considerable  merit  as  a  Provincial  actor 
once  called  by  appointment  at  Drury  Lane  Theatre.  He 
found  Mr.  Elliston,  who  had  then  the  management,  giving 
some  directions  on  the  stage,  and  was  welcomed  by  him 
with  great  politeness.  The  manager,  however,  thinking 
from  the  conversation  which  had  passed,  that  the  gentleman 
in  question  did  not  seem  sufficiently  impressed  with  the 
greatness  of  the  person  whom  he  was  addressing,  took  this 
method  of  displaying  his  power  and  consequence.  "Yes, 
sir,"  said  Mr.  Elliston,  continuing  the  conversation  previ- 
ously commenced,  with  a  slow  and  solemn  enunciation, 
"  the  drama — ig  now — at  its  lowest  ebb  :  and — "  then  sud- 
denly breaking  off,  in  a  loud,  emphatic  voice  he  called, 
"  First  night  watchman  !"  The  man  stepped  forward,  and 
making  his  bow,  stood  for  orders.  "And,"  resuming  to 
the  actor,  "  unless  a  material  change — "  again  breaking  off, 
he  called — "  Other  night  watchman  !"  with  a  peculiar  em- 
phasis. The  call  was  obeyed  as  before — "  a  material  change 
— I  say — takes  place — as  Juvenal  justly — Prompter  !"  The 
prompter  came — "  as  Juvenal  justly  observes — Boxkeeper, 
dress  circle,  right  hand  !  But,  sir,  a  reaction  must  take 
place  when — Other  boxkeepers  ! "  They  came  up — "Sir, 
I  say  there  must  be  a  reaction  —  Copyist!  Call-boy!" 
Having  collected  all  these  personages  about  him  without 
any  apparent  object,  he  turned  to  the  actor,  and  saying  in 
a  slow  magisterial  tone,  "Follow  me,"  retired  in  a  very 


ELLISTON. 


395 


dignified  manner,  leaving  the  minions  of  his  power  to  guess 
what  he  wanted.* 

But  it  is  the  Ellistonian  advertisements  that  afford  the 
richest  entertainment.  These  are  not  to  be  classed  with 
the  artificial  and  vulgar  allurements  of  the  ordinary  and 
conventional  claptraps,  in  which  their  author  has  but  small 
faith,  save  as  a  useful  means  of  decoying  the  public.  In 
Elliston's  case,  the  charm  is  the  perfect  genuineness  of 
these  flourishes :  he  was  addressing  his  public  as  he  would 
address  them  from  the  stage:  they  were  part  of  his  "grand 
manner."  He  believed  that  these  strange  flourishings  had 
a  certain  power :  it  was  his  fashion  of  working  on  those 
whom  he  addressed.  Nothing  too  is  more  entertaining 
than  the  curious  phrases,  the  strange  inferences,  and  the 
abnormal  English,  not  so  much  ignorance  as  the  result  of 
the  grand  and  pompous  confusion  within.  Thus  are  the 
mere  prosaic  elements,  the  object  and  aim  of  such  adver- 
tisement, viz.,  the  vulgar  money  objects,  lifted  into  dig- 
nity by  being  connected  with  the  loftiest  associations.  As 
when  the  "  Free  list  is  suspended,"  not  because  of  the 
crowds,  &c.,  but  lest  the  immortal  Shakespeare  "should 
meet  -with  opponents  !"  A  new  piece  cannot  be  produced 
on  the  day  announced,  and  we  hear  the  manager  confiden- 
tially assuring  his  patrons,  "  that  it  must,  in  consequence  of 
an  unexpected  difficulty,  be  postponed  for  a  few  days ;"  thus 
conveying  a  sense  of  mystery,  of  possibly  secret  influences 
at  work,  and  asking  for  friendly  confidence  in  himself. 

It  was  when  he  took  the  reins  at  Drury  Lane  that  he 
abandoned  his  grotesque  advertisements  and  assumed  this 
grand  style.  The  centre  of  his  play-bill,f  which  was  the 


»  "  Monthly  Magazine." 

fThe  Editor  has  gone  over  the  rast  collection  of  play-bills  in  the  British 
luseum.  with  a  view  to  a  selection  of  some  piquant  passages.     Nothing 


396  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

emphatic  part  of  his  communication,  was  printed  in  a 
flaming  red  type  that  contrasted  effectively  with  the  famil- 
iar rich  black  of  the  rest.  This  was  his  great  official  mode 
of  communicating  with  his  friends,  and  thus  were  conveyed 
meaning  hints  as  to  the  future,  suspicions,  and,  above  all, 
lofty  declarations  of  success.  Thus,  having  secured  Miss 
Wilson  the  vocalist,  he  assures  the  public  in  these  red 
characters,  "  that  in  the  determination  to  make  the  operatic 
company  of  this  establishment  superior  to  every  former  pre- 
cedent, it  is  now  with  equal  pleasure  and  satisfaction  that 
the  proprietor  has  to,"  &c.  The  young  lady  appeared; 
and  Elliston  on  the  following  evening  announced  that 
"Miss  WILSON  made  her  first  appearance  yesterday  even- 
ing, &c.  The  unbiased  opinion  of  the  most  brilliant, 
overflowing,  and  admiring  audience  that  ever  graced  a 
Theatre  Royal,  and  the  enthusiastic  fervor  that  accom- 
panied the  opera  throughout,  justifies  the  proprietor,"  in 
giving  out  the  piece  for  repetition  until  further  notice?— 
no — that  was  left  to  ordinary  managers,  but  "in  congratu- 
lating the  musical  world  on  this  vast  accession  of  talent, 
and  to  (sic)  announce  that,"  &c.  A  few  days  after  he 
says  that,  "the  enthusiasm  is  beyond  every  former  prece- 
dent- Not  an  order  has  been  or  will  be  given  by  the  man- 
ager during  Miss  Wilson's  engagement.  The  public  decision 
has  therefore  been  entirely  unbiased,  and  their  admiration 
of  the  united  talents  engaged  is  confirmed  by  a  demand 
for  places,  not  exceeded  by  the  most  popular  performances 
of  the  most  prosperous  period  of  this  establishment." 

Again,  in  red  letters,  a  day  or  two  later:  "The  enthusi- 
asm which  has  been  manifested,"  as  before,  &c. — "The 
general  voice  has  decided  upon  her  merits,  and  has  demon- 


more  entertaining  can  be  conceived  than  the  review  of  this  strange  gallery 
of  eccentricity. 


ELLISTOX. 


397 


strated  itself  in  applause  of  the  most  generous  and  exhilara- 
ting fervor.  Not  an  order,"  &c.,  as  before. 

"PS.  Every  seat  in  the  Theatre  was  occupied  before 
seven  o'clock  on  Tuesday  evening,  and  hundreds  were  dis- 
appointed in  their  desire  to  obtain  a  seat  in  the  Boxes  !" 

Once  more :  "  The  opera  continues  its  triumphant  career. 
It  is  an  absolute  fact  that  at  this  moment  there  are  more 
than  THREE  THOUSAND  PLACES  taken  of  Mr.  Rodwell,  the 
Box  Bookkeeper,"  &c.  Producing  later  a  comedy  and  a 
melodrama,  he  says  of  the  latter :  "  The  new  Melodrama  is 
the  most  successful  piece  that  was  ever  produced  ! .'  /" — It, 
however,  had  but  moderate  success.  The  Comedy  he  says, 
"  was  for  the  second  time  received  with  undiminished  ef- 
fect."— It  would  be  the  pride  of  the  establishment  "  should 
the  comedies  of  this  Theatre  be  esteemed  worthy  of  that 
pre-eminent  situation  the  operatic  company  has  attained." — 
One  of  his  delightful  forms  of  self-gratulation  ran  as  fol- 
lows :  "  and,  without  modestly  adverting  to  the  days  of  Gar- 
rick,  the  managers  trust  that  their  present  and  future  efforts 
will,  without  any  temporary  gasconade  of  the  non-admission 
of  orders,  be,"  &c. — This  curious  inversion  is  significant 
of  the  Elliston  mind,  and  the  "temporary  gasconade"  is 
specially  charming.  Such  faint  qualifications  of  his  lofty 
declarations  were  tributes  reluctantly  paid,  ex  gratia,  to  the 
conventional  forms  of  society.  They  were  indeed  scarcely 
qualifications  at  all.  Thus  where  the  success  of  another 
piece  had  been  decreed — for,  as  we  have  seen,  the  great 
man  decided  on  this  point,  and  even  where  a  play  had 
failed,  gave  judgment  against  the  audience — he  says  it ' '  met 
with  a  reception  honorable  to  the  industry,  as  if  is  hoped, 
of  the  establishment.  It  depended  on  its  best  basis,  a  pow- 
erful natural  effect  upon  the  feelings  of  the  audience,  and 
this  is  considered  by  the  manager  (Jterhaps  solely)  the  best 
medium  to  the  real  patronage  of  the  public."  Here  the 
34 


398  THE  ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 

"best  basis,"  and  "the  medium  to  the  real  patronage," 
are  admirable  j  but  the  placid  qualification,  " perhaps  solely" 
would  be  most  to  the  taste  of  a  mind  like  Elia's. 

But  it  was  "The  Coronation"  that  brought  out  all  his 
eccentric  power,  and  he  literally  reveled  in  the  florid  proc- 
lamations of  that  spectacle.  It  was  given  out  that  "  a  fac- 
simile of  the  real  ceremonial  was  in  preparation  and  would 
be  announced  in  a  few  days,  with  a  prefatory  new  comedy." 
Suddenly  Edmund  Kean  appeared  in  England,  and  was 
secured  as  a  fresh  attraction  by  the  clever  Lessee. — The 
Coronation  would  "keep,"  while  the  great  tragedian  was 
duly  celebrated  with  the  usual  flourishing  "red  letters," 
most  "tumultuous  applause  ever  known,"  &c. — But  the 
audience  were  kept  in  mind  of  the  grand  pageant  that  was 
preparing  by  sundry  nods  and  whispers.  The  preparations 
were  all  the  time  "  proceeding  with  the  greatest  activity, 
but  as  they  have  extended  beyond  the  first  intention,  the 
theatre  m-ust  be  closed  on  Tuesday ;  and  on  Wednesday 
the  Procession  and  all  the  paraphernalia,  &c.,  will  cer- 
tainly,'1 &c. — It  was  given  out  too  that  every  one  who  had 
taken  part  in  the  real  ceremony  had  been  consulted. — 
When  it  was  presented,  "overflowing  and  delighted  audi- 
ences nightly  recognize  and  acknowledge  the  Coronation  as 
the  most  correct  and  splendid  exhibition  ever,"  &c. 

Hazlitt  took  issue  on  these  rhodomontades,  and  boldly 
said  that  the  theatre  "did  not  overflow,"  and  that  the 
audiences  were  rather  meagre.  This  was  as  nothing  to 
our  airy  manager,  who  with  his  fanciful  eye  saw  the  vast 
crowds,  mistily  depicted,  much  as  such  a  gathering  is 
shadowed  upon  a  "flat  scene"  on  the  modern  stage.  But 
his  most  ingeniously  expressed  pretext  for  not  withdrawing 
it,  to  make  place  for  one  already  announced,  is  well  worthy 
being  commemorated.  The  piece,  he  owned,  had  been 
promised,  "but  the  demand  for  Boxes  by  families,  and  a 


ELLISTON. 


399 


conviction  that  the  complicated  scenery  employed  in  this 
splendid  exhibition  cannot,  when  once  laid  aside,  be  re- 
placed under  a  considerable  time,  has  induced  the  man- 
ager," &c.  Another  show  "being  now  established  as  the 
most  gorgeous  exhibition  of  scenic  effect,  united  with 
interest,  ever  submitted  to  public  opinion,  it  will  be,"  &c. 
— Here  should  be  marked  by  students  of  the  grand,  the 
parenthetic,  careless  way  in  which  this  panegyric  is  given, 
— i.e.  "  being  now  established  ;"  "  scenic  effect  united  with 
interest' '  is  a  good  touch  :  while  a  vulgar  hand  would  have 
been  content  with  "submitted  to  the  public,"  instead  of 
to  "public  opinion."  How  much,  too,  was  insinuated  by 
the  description  of  a  piece  which,  though  received  with 
"tumultuous  approbation,"  had  yet  encountered  hostility 
— a  reception  thus  glanced  at :  "  Every  factitious  (no  doubt 
"factious")  opposition  previously  organized  being  com- 
pletely overpowered — the  numerous  communications  on 
this  subject  that  have  been  received  will,  in  due  time,  be 
brought  before  the  public ." 

This  sort  of  life  did  not  last  long.  Dissipation  altered 
his  appearance,  his  figure  and  fine  face  showing  fearful 
evidences  of  decay.  All  intelligence  passed  from  that 
speaking  face,  and  the  elasticity  of  his  step  was  gone. 

It  was  at  this  very  period  that  this  most  eccentric  and 
extraordinary  man  contemplated  two  of  the  greatest  pro- 
jects of  his  life.  Visionary  and  wild  as  they  were,  he  yet 
followed  them  up  for  a  time  with  an  ardor  which  puzzled 
ail  physiological  inquiry  ;  a  second  marriage  was  the  one, 
and  a  seat  in  parliament  the  other  ! 

"  His  senatorial  dream  was  a  vision  of  no  mean  character. 
With  the  proceeds  of  ( Black-eyed  Susan,'  and  the  richer 
sum  of  his  personal  endowments,  he  proposed  canvassing 
some  western  borough,  and  was  actually  in  correspondence 
with  parliamentary  agents  on  the  question.  Surrey,  cer- 


400  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

tainly  he  had  twice  represented,  and  was  still  a  sitting 
member;  and  had  the  franchise  been  extended  at  this  time- 
to  the  metropolitan  boroughs,  we  are  not  quite  clear  how 
far  his  exertions  might  have  led  him  towards  success.  The 
senatorial  project,  however,  expired  in  the  cradle  of  its 
birth — namely,  the  back-parlor  of  our  hero  in  Blackfriars 
Road." 

The  marriage  was  'an  idea  as  eccentric — the  object  of  his 
attentions  being  an  elderly  lady,  oldest  of  three  sisters, 
but  who  after  all  preliminaries  were  settled,  declined  to 
ally  herself  without  bringing  her  two  relatives  into  the 
family.  A  little  later  he  was  seized  with  apoplexy,  and  to 
the  end  maintained  his  character,  "  talking  in  a  confused 
manner,  and  blessing  his  friends  in  the  most  placid  and 
resigned  manner." 

On  the  8th  of  July,  1831,  he  expired.  Lamb  wrote  his 
epitaph — one  of  his  happiest  papers : — 

"  What  new  mysterious  lodgings  dost  thou  tenant  now? 
or  when  may  we  expect  thy  aerial  house-warming  ? 

"Tartarus  we  know,  and  we  have  read  of  the  Blessed 
Shades ;  now  cannot  I  intelligibly  fancy  thee  in  either. 

"  There  by  the  neighboring  moon  mayst  thou  not  still  be 
acting  thy  managerial  pranks,  great  disembodied  Lessee? 
but  still,  and  still  a  Manager. 

"In  Green-rooms,  impervious  to  mortal  eye,  the  muse 
beholds  thee  wielding  posthumous  empire. 

"Thin  ghosts  of  Figurantes  (never  plump  on  earth) 
circle  thee  in  endlessly,  and  still  their  song  is  Fye  on  sinful 
Fantasy. 

"  Magnificent  were  thy  capriccios  on  this  globe  of  earth, 
ROBERT  WILLIAM  ELLISTON  !  for  as  yet  we  know  not  thy 
new  name  in  heaven. 

"It  irks  me  to  think,  that,  stripped  of  thy  regalities, 
thou  shouldst  ferry  over,  a  poor  forked  shade,  in  crazy 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  401 

Stygian  wherry.  Methinks  I  hear  the  old  boatman,  pad- 
dling by  the  weedy  wharf,  with  rancid  voice,  bawling, 
'  SCULLS,  SCCLLS  :'  to  which,  with  waving  hand,  and  majes- 
tic action,  thou  deignest  no  reply,  other  than  in  two  curt 
monosyllables,  'No:  OARS.' 

"  But  the  laws  of  Pluto's  kingdom  know  small  difference 
between  king  and  cobbler;  manager  and  call-boy;  and, 
if  haply  your  dates  of  life  were  conterminant,  you  are 
quietly  taking  your  passage,  cheek  by  cheek  (O  ignoble 
leveling  of  Death),  with  the  shade  of  some  recently  de- 
parted candle-snuffer." 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

GERALD  GRIFFDf.* 

DURING  the  last  century  it  was  a  common  incident  in 
literary  life,  that  a  young  man  of  "parts"  and  ability 
should  be  encouraged  by  the  praises  of  his  friends  to  put 
his  poem  or  tragedy  in  his  pocket,  and  set  off,  with  some 
slender  pittance,  to  try  his  fortune  in  London.  Every- 
thing seemed  rose-colored,  and  the  raptures  of  the  village 
or  country  town  critics  might  reasonably  be  looked  for,  if 
in  less  exuberant  shape,  from  the  more  competent  judges 
of  the  great  metropolis.  A  certain  amount  of  struggle  and 
toil  was  to  be  expected:  but  this  would  be  cheerfully 
undergone,  and  welcomed  as  a  wholesome  discipline. 

The  reality  was  very  different,  and  there  is  a  dismal 
uniformity  in  the  story  of  such  poor  adventurers ;  who  in 
a  few  very  rare  instances  reached  to  favor,  and  to  com- 

*  Bom  1803.  died  1840. 
34* 


402  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

petence,  which  the  same  amount  of  labor  and  purpose  in 
another  walk  of  life  would  have  made  a  handsome  fortune. 
But  the  great  proportion,  hopelessly  committed  to  their 
task-work,  sank  into  the  condition  of  booksellers'  hacks, 
and  worked  out  their  "time"  in  starvation  or  gin.  These 
formed  the  great  colony  of  Grub  Street. 

Still,  just  as  the  day  laborer  was  nearly  always  secure  of 
some  wage,  however  miserable,  so  the  hack  might  reckon 
on  work  of  some  description  from  the  bookseller,  on  the 
usual  "sweater's  terms" — two  guineas  for  a  translated 
novel,  and  the  like.  But  the  playwriter's  case  might  seem 
desperate.  There  were  but  two  theatres  open,  rarely  three : 
and  the  collection  of  Garrick's  letters  shows  that  the  can- 
didate playwriters  included  every  class  in  the  kingdom — 
clergymen,  doctors,  soldiers,  clerks,  shopmen,  &c.  It  thus 
became  a  rueful  sort  of  lottery. 

This  picture,  it  might  be  assumed,  belonged  to  the  past 
century,  and  the  most  interesting  instance  of  such  a  strug- 
gle is  perhaps  that  of  Goldsmith  and  his  friend  Johnson. 
Goldsmith's  story,  as  told  so  gracefully  by  Mr.  Forster,  is 
almost  painful ;  and  it  is  with  some  relief  that  the  reader 
thinks  that  the  days  of  such  miseries  are  passed  away.  It 
is  remarkable,  however,  that  within  the  days  of  our  own 
generation  this  story  should  have  been  once  more  repeated, 
and  with  circumstances  of  an  almost  pathetic  interest;  and 
that  a  young  fellow  should  have  started  from  the  banks  of 
the  Shannon  with  a  half-written  tragedy  in  his  pocket, 
hoping  by  the  aid  of  friends,  but  still  more  by  the  claims 
of  his  genius,  to  force  booksellers,  managers,  and  actors  to 
give  him  a  hearing.  The  progress  of  this  illusion,  its 
gradual  fading  out  under  the  miserable  logic  of  privation, 
and  the  clinging  to  hope,  the  cheerfulness  assumed  for  the 
sake  of  those  at  home,  who  were  finding  the  small  pittance 
with  which  he  could  hardly  keep  body  and  soul  together 


GERALD   GR1FFIX. 


403 


in  the  world  of  London,  make  up  the  touching  story  of 
Gerald  Griffin,  told  best  in  bis  own  words. 

Before  he  was  twenty  he  found  himself  in  London  with 
an  unfinished  tragedy,  and  one  friend,  on  whom  all  his 
hopes  rested.  This  was  in  the  year  1823,  and  the  tale  of 
his  troubles  is  shown  in  a  series  of  letters  to  his  family. 

"  MY  DEAR  WILLIAM,"  he  writes,  full  of  enthusiasm, 

"  I  have  just  had  rather  a  long  interview  with at  his 

house,  and  he  has  kept  the  tragedy  of  'Aguire*  for  the 
purpose  of  reading  it.  He  asked  me  what  the  plot,  <Scc.. 
of  the  piece  was,  and  promised  to  give  me  an  answer  in 
the  course  of  next  week  if  possible ;  at  least  he  said  I  might 
depend  on  the  earliest  he  could  give.  You  may  remember 
some  time  before  I  left  Ireland,  I  told  you  the  plot  of  a 
tragedy  which  I  at  first  intended  to  be  called  *  The  Prodi- 
gal Son,' (an  actor)  tells  me  that  it  is  the  name  of  the 

new  tragedy  which  Banim  has  presented,  and  which  has 
been  accepted  at  Drury  Lane.  He  says  be  will  give  me  an 
answer  next  week ;  otherwise  he  cannot  promise  so  soon, 
so  that  until  then,  I  can  enjoy  all  the  delights  of  suspense 
in  their  fullest  force.  Every  one  to  whom  I  showed  the 
play  here  assured  me  of  its  success :  among  the  rest  your 

old  friend  Mr-  W .  I  have  had  a  tiresome  piece  of 

work  since  I  came,  transcribing  the  play,  which  I  was  told 
was  almost  illegible.  With  respect  to  the  situation  of  re- 
porter it  is  almost  impossible  to  procure  it  at  present,  as 
the  business  season  has  not  commenced.  That  of  police 
reporter  is  easy  enough  I  believe  to  be  procured,  but  I  am 
told  the  office  is  scarcely  reputable.  I  shall  take  a  report 
of  some  matter,  and  send  it  to  the  papers  the  first  oppor- 
tunity. I  have  had  such  harassing  work  looking  after  ad- 
dresses, &c.,  together  with  continued  writing,  and  the 
terrible  damp  fogs  that  have  prevailed  here  lately,  that  I 
got  this  week  a  renewal  of  my  old  attacks  of  chest.  I  am 


404  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

however,  much  better.  With  respect  to  the  state  of  my 
finances,  they  are  getting  low.  I  was  put  to  some  expense 

while  looking  for  lodgings,  as  my  good  friend  P had  no 

bed.  If  you  could  spare  me  a  few  pounds,  I  am  pretty 
certain  I  can  do  something  shortly.  At  all  events  write  to 
me,  and  let  me  know  what  you  think  of  my  prospects  and 
of  what  I  have  done  and  ought  to  do." 

"Mv  DEAR  WILLIAM,"  he  again  wrote,  on  Nov.  22, 
1823,  "I  never  experienced  until  this  morning  what  the 
pain  was  of  receiving  unpleasant  news  from  home.  The 
account  which  you  give  of  the  state  of  your  health  was  as 
unexpected  as  it  was  distressing.  The  bill  on  Sir  E.  Flyn 
and  Co.  I  have  received.  It  was  entirely  too  much  for  you 
to  send  me  under  the  circumstances.  Half  the  money 
would  I  am  sure  with  economy  enable  me  to  get  through 
until  I  have  procured  a  way  of  doing  something.  I  have 
sent  some  pieces  to  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  and  if 
they  are  accepted  I  intend  to  offer  Colburn  the  first  number 
of  a  series  of  papers.  He  pays  liberally  for  these  contri- 
butions. The  success  of  this,  however,  I  do  not  set  much 
reliance  upon.  I  intend  to  report  the  trial  of  the  murder- 
ers of  Weare,  which  will  come  on  soon.  I  am  not  so  san- 
guine about  my  prospects  as  that  I  could  not  easily  resign 

myself  to  a  disappointment.     Mr.  W often  advises  me 

to  avoid  it,  as  he  says  there  are  so  many  mortifications 
mingle  1  even  with  success,  that  a  person  who  is  very  san- 
guine is  sure  to  be  disappointed.  But  among  all  the  damp- 
ers I  meet,  there  is  not  such  a  finis',  ed  croaker  as  a  young 
student  at  the  bar,  who  is  himself  a  disappointed  dramatist, 
and  never  meets  me  without  some  agreeable  foreboding  or 
other.  With  respect  to  the  taste  of  a  London  audience, 
you  may  judge  what  it  is  when  I  tell  you  that  '  Venice  Pre- 
served' will  scarcely  draw  a  decent  hous  - ;  while  such  a 
piece  of  unmeaning  absurdity  as  the  '  Cataract  of  the 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  405 

Ganges'  has  filled  Drury  Lane  every  night  these  three 
weeks  past.  The  scenery  and  decorations,  field  of  battle, 
burning  forest,  and  cataract  of  real  water,  afforded  a  suc- 
cession of  splendor  I  had  no  conception  of,  but  I  was 
heartily  tired  of  the  eternal  galloping,  burning ;  marching, 
and  counter-marching,  and  the  dull  speechifying  with  which 
it  abounds.  A  lady  on  horseback  riding  up  a  cataract  is 
rather  a  bold  stroke,  but  these  things  are  quite  the  rage 
now.  They  are  hissed  by  the  gods,  but  that  is  a  trifle  so 
long  as  they  fill  the  house  and  the  manager's  pockets.  I 
build  great  hopes  out  of  the  burning  convent  and  the 
thunder-storm,  if  '  Aguire'  should  be  accepted,  as  well  as  a 
grand  procession  and  chorus  which  I  have  introduced  in  the 
second  act.  My  dearest  William,  I  hope  your  next  letter 
will  bring  me  better  accounts  than  that  which  now  lies 
before  me.  I  have  set  my  happiness  if  I  should  succeed, 
on  sharing  with  you  the  pleasures  and  pains  of  authorship, 
and  if  this  unfortunate  attack  should  disable  you  (though  I 
have  fervent  hopes  it  may  not  turn  out  so  serious  as  you 
fear),  greater  success  than  I  can  ever  hope  for  would  make 
no  amends.  Your  affectionate  and  grateful,  GERALD  GRIF- 
FIN." 

"Mv  DFJUI  WILLIAM,"  he  wrote  on  Dec.  29,  1823,  "I 
mentioned  to  you  a  few  days  since,  that  I  had  seen  Banim. 
I  dined  with  him  on  Thursday ;  there  were  Mrs.  Banim  and 
an  Irish  gentleman,  and  we  had  a  pleasant  evening  enough. 
He  had  read  'Aguire'  twice.  He  went  over  it  scene  by 
scene  with  me,  and  pointed  out  all  the  passages  he  disliked. 
He  then  gave  me  his  candid  opinion,  which  was,  that  after 
making  those  alterations,  the  play  ought  to  be  accepted, 
and  to  succeed.  He  gave  it  very  high  praise  indeed, 
especially  the  third  and  fourth  acts,  which  he  said  could 
not  be  better.  Parts  of  the  others  he  found  fault  with. 
The  piece  would  not  suffer  by  the  loss  of  those  passages,  as 


406  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

he  thought  the  acts  too  long.  He  recommended  me  to 
persevere  in  writing  for  the  stage,  and  if  I  did  so,  to  fore- 
swear roses,  dewdrops,  and  sunbeams  forever.  The  fate 
of  the  unfortunate  '  Vespers  of  Palermo'  told  me  this 
before.  Poetry  is  not  listened  to  on  the  stage  here.  I 
could  not  on  the  whole,  have  expected  Banim  to  act  a 
more  friendly  or  generous  part  than  he  has  done.  On  the 
second  day  I  called  on  him  (Saturday),  he  made  me  stop 
to  dinner.  I  put  the  direct  question  to  him,  whether  from 
what  he  had  seen  it  was  his  real  opinion  that  I  should  be 
successful  as  a  dramatist.  His  reply  was,  that  he  thought 
I  had  every  claim,  and  since  I  had  dealt  so  candidly  with 
him,  he  advised  me  to  write  on,  and  that  he  would  do 
everything  for  any  piece  I  wished  to  bring  forward,  that 
he  would  do  if  it  was  his  own.  With  respect  to  the  present 

piece,  he  advised  me  to  leave  it  in 's  hands  until  he 

sends  it  to  me  and  not  call  or  write  to  him.  If  he  knows 
anything  of  him,  he  says  he  will  keep  and  play  it.  I  am 
very  sorry  I  did  not  see  Banim  first.  In  that  case  I  should 
long  since  have  known  its  fate,  as  he  could  have  procured 
me  an  answer  from  the  committee  in  ten  days.  I  have  not 
been  able  to  procure  an  engagement  since  I  wrote  last.  It 
is  very  difficult  to  do  so.  I  intend  however  to  make  a 
desperate  effort  this  week,  for  it  must  be  done  before  long 
or  not  at  all.  I  have  got  a  cold  and  an  ugly  cough  at 
present,  but  my  health  on  the  whole  is  very  tolerable.  I 
have  been  obliged  to  lay  out  nearly  half  the  money  you 
sent  me,  in  clothes,  as  without  them  I  might  as  well  have 
remained  at  home.  I  owe  but  the  last  week  for  my  lodg- 
ings, but  if  I  cannot  get  an  engagement  very  shortly,  I 
will  give  them  up  altogether,  for  the  rent  is  too  much  for 
me." 

Thus  far  all   promised   fairly,  but  the  slow  and  cruel 
process  of  desillusionnement  was  now  to  begin.     The  little 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  407 

salves  and  excises  he  finds  for  this  check  are  almost 
piteous. 

In  January,  1824,  he  wrote: — 

"  MY  DEAR  WIUJAM, has  sent  me  back  my  piece 

(I  don't  like  that  word  rejected),  after  keeping  it  nearly 
three  months,  without  any  opinion,  other  than  the  mere 
act  of  doing  so.  I  had  just  the  day  before  said  to  Banim, 
that  I  wished  he  would  do  it,  for  I  heartily  disliked  the 
idea  of  his  being  considered  my  patron  if  he  should  accept 
it.  From  the  description  I  have  received  of  the  manner 
in  which  actors  deal  with  those  who  are  brought  before 
the  public  through  their  instrumentality,  I  am  in  a  fine 
vein  for  cutting  at  them.  Pope  says  very  truly,  they  are 
judges  of  what  is  good  just  as  a  tailor  is  of  what  is  grace- 
ful. Johnson,  that  sensible  old  fellow,  always  despised 
them.  The  fact  was  of  all  the  introductions  I  could 
get,  none  could  have  been  slighter  than  that  I  handed  to 

,  though  I  thought  it  a  fine  thing  at  the  time.  Of  all 

the  people  I  could  have  applied  to,  an  actor  was  the  least 
likely  to  pay  me  attention  :  and  of  all  actors  I  could  have 

selected,  was  the  worst:  for,  you  must  know  he 

dabbles  in  tragedy  himself;  and  I  suppose  you  recollect 
the  whisper  to  Sir  Fretful  or  Puff,  (which  is  it  ?)  in  the 
'  Critic,' — *  Never  send  a  piece  to  Drury' — *  Writes  him- 
self^' 'I  know  it,  sir.'  However,  after  all  this,  the 
piece  deserved  to  be  rejected,  for  it  had  many  and  griev- 
ous sins.  Banim  said  if  I  change  the  name  and  make 
those  alterations  he  pointed  out,  he  will  present  it  for  me 
and  get  me  an  immediate  answer.  With  a  true,  indefati- 
gable, Grub  Street  spirit,  I  have  commenced  a  new  one 
and  have  it  nearly  finished.  .  .  .  There  is  a  great  dearth 
of  talent  in  that  way  at  present.  You  were  right  in  sup- 
posing there  are  a  great  number  of  pieces  presented  at  the 
theatres.  Banim  tells  me  he  supposes  there  are  no  less 


4o8  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

than  a  thousand  rejected  every  year.  I  was  born  under 
some  extraordinary  planet  I  believe.  You  recollect  the 
coincidences  I  before  mentioned  to  you.  A  tragedy 
founded  on  the  story  of  Aguire  and  called  the  Spanish 
Revenge,  has  been  presented  at  Covent  Garden  and  re- 
jected. ...  I  have  been  very  busy  lately,  both  in  writing 
and  endeavoring  to  procure  some  regular  employment. 
.  .  .  GERALD  GRIFFIN." 

Another  month  and  there  is  a  further  descent : — 
"  Feb.  1824.  Since  I  last  wrote,  I  have  been  making 
the  utmost  efforts  to  secure  some  immediate  way  of  support, 
and  nevertheless,  in  that  point,  still  remain  in  abeyance. 
Banim,  who  is  very  kind  to  me,  can  do  nothing  at  present 
with  the  press,  as  those  with  whom  he  has  influence  are  all 
preoccupied.  Of  the  daily  or  political  press  he  knows 
nothing.  On  my  calling  on  him,  I  believe  the  day  after  I 
wrote  to  you  last,  he  urged  me  to  alter  Aguire,  in  those 
passages  he  pointed  out,  and  told  me  that  he  still  perse- 
vered in  his  opinion  of  it :  that  there  were  scenes  in  it 
which  for  stage  effect  and  every  requisite  could  not  be  bet- 
ter. I  have  conned  the  play  over  so  often  myself,  that  I 
don't  know  what's  bad  or  good  in  it  but  as  I  am  told,  and 
therefore  found  the  alterations  very  troublesome. 

"  I  trust  in  God  that  I  may  be  enabled  to  do  something 
which  will  prevent  my  again  trespassing  on  you.  I  could 
not  economize  more  rigidly  than  I  do.  My  lodgings  I 
have  still  kept,  as  at  that  time  I  owed  a  little,  and  if  I  was 
to  go  into  new,  I  should  be  obliged  to  pay  ready  money 
for  some  time,  and  that  is  not  now  absolutely  necessary 
where  I  am  ;  and  considering  the  difference  in  charge  I 
could  procure  another  for,  the  advantage  I  think  was  on  the 
side  of  the  remaining.  I  have  now  shewn  you  my  circum- 
stances. Before  another  fortnight  or  three  weeks,  I  think 
I  shall  be  able  to  let  you  know  that  I  have  been  either 


GERALD    GRIFFIN. 


409 


accepted  or  rejected  at  the  theatres.  I  find has  been 

with  you.  He  left  this  I  believe  the  very  day  I  received 
my  manuscript.  Peace  be  with  him  !  he  has  cured  me  of 
histrionic  patrons." 

His  distresses  were  now  slowly  gathering,  and  his  hopes 
sinking  in  the  same  measure. 

In  March,  he  wrote  : — 

"  I  must  have  heartily  tired  and  sickened  you  before  now, 
and  I  am  sick  and  tired  myself.  I  had  little  idea  before  I 
left  Ireland  that  it  was  possible  I  could  be  nearly  five  months 
in  London  without  doing  anything  ;  but  it  is  not  through 
my  remissness  that  has  been  the  case.  A  very  little  time 
longer  will  tell  me  all  that  I  have  to  expect,  and  1  shall 
then  take  measures  accordingly*.  I  had  a  visit  from  Banim 
the  other  day.  What  with  the  delays  and  disappointments 
I  have  met  since  I  came  here,  it  is  only  his  encouragement, 
and  his  friendship  that  keeps  hope  alive.  I  shall  write  to 
you  again  when  I  know  the  issue  of  the  play,  which  I  have 
long  since  finished." 

"...  Banim's  friendship  I  find  every  day  growing 
more  ardent,  more  cordial  if  possible.  I  dined  with  him 
on  Sunday  last.  I  told  you  in  my  last,  I  had  left  him  four 
acts  of  a  play,  for  the  purpose  of  leaving  it  to  his  option, 
to  present  that  or  Aguire,  I  anticipated  the  preference  of 
the  new,  and  have  with  him  succeeded  to  my  wish.  He 
says  it  is  the  best  I  have  written  yet,  and  will  be  when  fin- 
ished '  a  most  effective  play  !'  but  what  gives  me  the  great- 
est satisfaction  respecting  it,  is  the  consciousness  that  I 
have  written  an  original  play.  That  passion  of  revenge 
you  know  was  threadbare.  Banim  has  made  some  sugges- 
tions which  I  have  adopted.  I  will  finish  it  immediately, 
place  it  in  his  hands,  and  abide  the  result  in  following  other 
pursuits.  He  advises  me  to  have  it  presented  at  Covent 
Garden,  for  many  reasons.  Imprimis  they  are  more  liberal ; 
s  35 


4io  TffE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

next  Gisippus  is  a  character  for  Young  or  Macready ;  the 
former  I  should  rather  to  undertake  it,  as  I  have  placed  the 
effect  of  the  piece  more  in  pathos  than  violent  passion. 
He  wishes  to  speak  to  Young,  who  is  his  intimate  friend, 
before  he  presents  it,  in  order  to  learn  all  the  Green  Room 
secrets.  Young  will  be  in  town  this  week.  Banim  made 
me  an  offer  the  other  day,  which  will  be  of  more  imme- 
diate advantage  than  the  tragedy,  inasmuch  as  I  need  not 
abide  the  result.  He  desired  me  to  write  a  piece  for  the 
English  Opera  House.  When  I  have  it  finished  he  will 
introduce  me  to  Mr.  Arnold  of  Golden  Square,  the  pro- 
prietor, who  is  his  friend,  and  get  me  immediate  money 
for  it  without  awaiting  its  performance.  This  was  exactly 
such  an  offer  as  I  wanted,  and  you  may  be  sure  I  will  avail 
myself  of  it.  It  is  doubly  advantageous  as  the  English 
Opera  House  continues  open  until  next  winter,  but  I  must 
see  it  first.  You  see  our  prospects  go  on  slowly,  but  every 
day  I  feel  the  ground  more  firm  beneath  my  feet.  Banim 
offers  me  many  introductions.  He  is  acquainted  with 
Thomas  Moore — who  was  to  see  him  the  other  day — 
Campbell  and  others  of  celebrity.  The  less  I  think  that  is 
said  about  my  theatrical  views  at  present  the  better.  O 
Lord  !  if  I  should  be  damned  after  all  this  !  But  no  !  that 
will  not  be  the  case  I  am  sure,  for  I  have  a  presentiment 
of  success.  What  would  I  have  done  if  I  had  not  found 
Banim  ?  I  should  have  instantly  despaired  on 's  treat- 
ment of  me.  I  should  never  be  tired  of  talking  about  and 
thinking  of  Banim.  Mark  me,  he  is  a  man.  The  only 
one  I  have  met  since  I  have  left  Ireland,  almost." 

Again,  on  March  3ist: — 

"Mr  DEAREST  ELLEN. — It  is  now  3.  long  time  since  I 
have  written  to,  or  heard  directly  from  Pallas.  William 
mentioned  in  his  last  that  you  were  very  ill,  but  I  hope  you 
do  not  add  to  your  already  severe  sufferings  those  of  imag- 


GERALD   GRIFFIN. 


411 


{nation :  indeed  I  know  you  do  not.  Oh  !  my  dear  Ellen, 
if  I  could  but  transfer  to  you  and  William  a  little  of  the 
hope — the  bright  expectancy  that  cheers  and  buoys  up  my 
own  spirit  through  the  anxiety  of  suspense,  I  think  it  would 
be  well  both  for  your  health  and  happiness.  I  am  not  im- 
patient, though  anxious.  /  should  myself  have  wondered  if  I 

had  stnuk  at  once  into  reputation  and  independence.  '  j 

rejection  ofmet  I  regard  as  a  dispensation  of  Providence.  I 
was  a  leetle  too  confident  perhaps,  and  it  was  a  seasonable 
humiliation  in  the  commencement  of  my  career.  However 
this  does  not  excuse  him.  I  do  not  say  he  might  not  have 
rejected  me.  but  his  manner  of  doing  so  was  bad.  He 
knew  I  was  a  stranger  in  London,  young  and  inexperienced 
in  such  matters,  and  his  countryman,  and  he  kept  me  in 
suspense  three  months ;  then  sent  back  my  piece  without 
comment,  wrapped  in  an  old  paper,  and  unsealed  !  If  I  had 
any  wish  for  a  little  revenge — but  I  had  not — I  understand 
it  will  soon  be  gratified  in  some  measure.  The  affair,  with- 
out mentioning  names,  will  be  taken  up  in  one  of  Black- 
wood's  forthcoming  magazines — not  much  to  his  advan- 
tage.  I  have  no  enmity  to  the  man,  but  for  justice'  sake,  I 
don't  grudge  him  whatever  he  gets  from  Blackwood  for  it." 

There  could  be  nothing  more  painfully  interesting  to  a 
student  of  human  nature  than  the  fitful  turns  and  changes 
in  this  poor  adventurer.  Under  these  many  rallies  an  af- 
fected buoyancy  can  be  found,  with  the  sinking  of  despair ; 
and  the  passage  in  italics  offers  an  exquisite  stroke  of  char- 
acter. Two  months  more,  and  such  attempts  at  veiling  the 
hideous  truth  from  himself  were  abandoned.  In  May  he 
wrote : — 

"  For  myself,  I  am  quite  tired  of  this,  if  I  may  use  a 
cockney  idiom,  hot  water  kind  of  life ;  or  our  own  more  rich 
and  expressive  mode  of  conveying  the  idea,  « pulling  the 
devil  by  the  tail.'  It  would  be  a  great  thing  for  me,  if  I 


4I2  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

could  secure  a  present  livelihood,  while  I  prosecuted  other 
views  at  the  same  time,  for  I  cannot  do  anything  with  con- 
fidence or  ease,  while  I  have  the  terrible  idea  starting  on 
my  mind  at  intervals  that  it  may  possibly  be  that  I  am  mis- 
spending time  ;  but  this  at  least  I  hope  is  not  the  case.  At 
all  events  there  are  many  things  I  could  then  do,  which  I 
can  scarcely  do  now  with  comfort ;  among  the  rest,  writing 
for  magazines,  which  I  have  been  strongly  recommended 
to  try,  and  which  one  gentleman  whom  I  know,  told  me  he 
used  to  make  ^300  a  year  by,  and  yet  without  permanently 
engaging  himself  with  any.  Of  the  great  theatres  I  know 
I  cannot  form  any  immediate  expectation.  And  the  sum- 
mer one  is  not  open  yet. 

"I  will  tell  you  now  some  things  which  will  give  you 
some  idea  of  the  drama,  and  the  dramatic  management  of 
the  day,  which  however  for  the  credit  of  the  metier,  I 
would  not  breathe  to  'ears  profane.'  Of  all  the  walks  in 
literature,  it  certainly  is  at  present  the  most  heart-rending, 
the  most  toilsome,  and  the  most  harassing  to  a  man  who  is 
possessed  of  a  mind  that  may  be  at  all  wrought  on  by  cir- 
cumstances. The  managers  only  seek  to  fill  their  houses, 
and  don't  care  a  curse  for  all  the  dramatists  that  ever  lived. 
.  .  .  Literary  men  see  the  trouble  which  attends  it,  the 
bending  and  cringing  to  performers,  the  chicanery  of 
managers,  and  the  anxiety  of  suspense,  which  no  previous 
success  can  relieve  them  from — and  therefore  it  is  that 
they  seek  to  make  a  talent  for  some  other  walk,  and  con- 
tent themselves  with  the  quiet  fame  of  a  'closet  writer,' 
which  is  accompanied  with  little  or  none  of  the  uneasiness 
of  mind  which  the  former  brings  with  it.  ...  For  us,  poor 
devils — who  love  the  drama  well,  and  are  not  so  confident 
in  other  branches  of  that  most  toilsome  and  thankless  of  all 
professions,  authorship — we  must  only  be  content  to  wade 
through  thick  and  thin,  and  make  our  goal  as  soon  as  we 


GERALD  GRIFFIN.  413 

may.  This  saw-dost  and  water  work  will  pas  away  like 
everything  else,  and  then  perchance  the  poor  half-drowned 
muse  of  the  buskin  may  be  permitted  to  lift  her  head  above 
the  flood  once  more.  I  don't  know  how  it  is,  though  I 
have  never  pat  a  line  in  print  since  I  came  here — at  least 
so  that  I  was  known  in  it  by  anybody — I  have  got  a 
sneaking  kind  of  reputation  as  a  poet  among  my  acquaint- 
ances. 

"  With  regard  to  comedy,  the  surest  ground  for  a  comic 
writer  to  go  on,  is  to  select  present  manners,  follies,  and 
fashions  for  his  target.  These  hits  always  tell  well  in  the 
performance,  and  carry  off  many  a  heavy  plot.  Croly  has 
practiced  this  with  success  in  his  piece.  Shall  I  tell  you  a 
secret?  The  most  successful  dramatist  of  our  day,  I  mean 
as  to  the  number  of  successful  pieces  he  produced,  wrote  six 
plays  before  he  could  get  one  accepted." 

Later  he  wrote  to  his  sister : — 

"  Dtf  you  know  I  cannot  help  thinking  sometimes,  that 
we  should  all  have  been  better  and  happier  if  we  had 
accompanied  the  first  emigrants  of  our  family  and  settled 
with  them  in  Susquehana.  For  my  part,  situated  as  I  am 
at  present,  uncertain  of  the  ground  1  stand  on,  and  sick- 
ened by  repeated  delays  and  disappointments,  there  is 
only  one  thing  that  makes  me  imagine  I  should  not  be 
more  at  ease  there,  and  that  is  that  I  know  I  never  could 
be  so  anywhere,  until  I  had  tried  London  ;  and  even  yet, 
nothing  but  the  consideration  of  being  amongst  my  friends 
would  induce  me  to  make  the  exchange :  I  mean  to  say 
being  amongst  them,  and  seeing  them  in  health  and  com- 
fort. I  look  on  success  now  as  a  matter  of  mere  business 
and  nothing  more.  As  to  fame,  if  I  could  accomplish  it 
in  any  way,  I  should  scarcely  try  for  its  sake  alone.  I 
believe  it  is  the  case  with  almost  everybody  before  they 
succeed,  to  wear  away  all  relish  for  it  in  the  exertion.  I 
35* 


4i4  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

have  seen  enough  of  literature  and  literary  men  to  know 
what  it  is,  and  I  feel  convinced,  that  at  the  best,  and  with 
the  highest  reputation,  a  man  might  make  himself  as  happy 
in  other  walks  of  life.  I  see  those  who  have  got  it  as  in- 
different about  it  as  if  totally  unknown,  while  at  the  same 
time  they  like  to  add  to  it.  But  money  !  money  is  the 
grand  object — the  all  in  all.  I  am  not  avaricious,  but  I 
see  that  they  are  the  happiest  who  are  making  the  most, 
and  am  so  convinced  of  the  reality  of  its  blessings,  that  if 
I  could  make  a  fortune  by  splitting  matches,  I  think  I  never 
would  put  a  word  in  print." 

Again  : — 

"  My  employment,  I  mean  that  which  procured  me 
immediate  remuneration,  has  for  the  present  ceased.  I 
have  something  yet  on  hands,  but  though  the  bookseller 
who  suggested  the  idea  to  me  promised  to  engage  in  it,  he- 
would  not  speak  of  terms  until  it  is  completed.  This  will 
not  be  before  six  or  seven  weeks,  and  though  certain  of 
disposing  of  it  after  that  time,  mere  hope  will  not  lend  me 
her  wings  to  fly  over  the  interval.  You  may  judge  what  a 
mercenary  scribbler  I  am,  and  how  unwilling  to  let  a  job 
slip  through  my  fingers,  when  I  tell  you  that  I  engaged  to 
translate,  and  actually  translated  a  volume  and  a  half  of 
one  of  Prevot's  works,  for  two  guineas !  My  dear  Dan, 
tell  this  not  in  Gath ;  publish  it  not  in  the  streets  of 
Askalon." 

His  next  bitter  revelation,  though  gayly  made,  is  sig- 
nificant. 

"  Under  such  circumstances  as  these,  it  is  rather  vexa- 
tious that  I  cannot  avail  myself  of  my  own  exertions  through 
such  a  mortifying  and  apparently  trivial  obstacle  as  the 
state  of  my  garde-robe.  Banim  has  been  with  me  twice 
within  the  last  fortnight;  first  to  tell  me  that  Dr.  Maginn, 
who  is  the  principal  writer  in  Blackwood,  had  very  kindly 


GERALD  GRItFIN. 


415 


offered,  without  any  personal  knowledge  of  me,  to  intro- 
duce me  to  the  *  editor  of  the  Literary  Gazette'  (his  inti- 
mate friend),  and  the  second  time  to  ask  me  to  dine  at  his 
boose  with  some  literary  gentlemen,  amongst  whom  was 
Dr.  Maginn.  Both  invitations  I  was  obliged  to  decline 
(on  the  score  of  being  closely  occupied),  and  the  next 
morning  Banim  called  again  at  my  lodgings,  and  not  find- 
ing me  at  home,  left  a  note  to  say  that  he  was  sorry  I 
did  not  come,  but  whenever  I  chose  he  would  feel  great 
pleasure  in  introducing  me  to  those  gentlemen,  who  were 
anxious  for  my  acquaintance.  With  the  assistance  of 
heaven,  I  hope  I  shall  after  some  time  be  enabled  to  get 
over  this  difficulty."  Again  he  says :  "It  will  be  neces- 
sary for  me  now  in  order  to  procure  more  drudgery  to  go 
out  among  the  publishers :  this  I  cannot  do,  because  of 
the  prevention  I  have  mentioned.  The  fact  is,  I  am  at 
present  almost  a  complete  prisoner;  I  wait  until  dusk 
every  evening,  to  creep  from  my  mouse-hole,  and  snatch  a 
little  fresh  air  on  the  bridge  close  by.  Good  heaven  I  to 
think  that  I  am  here  in  the  centre  of  mountains  of  wealth ; 
almost  '  upon  "Change,'  and  to  have  no  opportunity  of  lay- 
ing an  honest  hand  upon  a  stray  draft  in  its  flight  from  one 
commercial  fellow  to  another,  who  has  no  more  business 
with  it  than  I  have  with — anything  that  I  have  too  much 
of  already  and  don't  know  what  to  do  with — say  common 
sense  and  modesty." 

"  Yon  have  no  idea  what  a  heart-breaking  life  that  of  a 
young  scribbler  beating  about,  and  endeavoring  to  make 
his  way  in  London  is;  going  into  a  bookseller's  shop,  as  I 
have  often  done,  and  being  obliged  to  praise  up  my  own 
manuscript,  to  induce  him  to  look  at  it  at  all — for  there  is 
so  much  competition,  that  a  person  without  a  name  will 
not  even  get  a  trial — while  he  puts  on  his  spectacles, 
and  answers  all  your  self-commendation  with  a  'hi 


41 6  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

um  ;' — a  set  of  hardened  villains  !  and  yet  at  no  time  what- 
ever could  I  have  been  prevailed  upon  to  quit  London 
altogether.  That  horrid  word  failure, — No  ! — death  first ! 
There  is  a  great  tragic  actress  here  who  offered  to  present 
my  play,  and  do  all  in  her  power  to  have  it  acted,  but  I 
have  been  sickened  of  such  matters  for  a  little  while.  I 
may  however  set  about  it  some  other  time.  Why  I  have 
yesterday  written  a  play  (in  one  act)  which  is  to  be  pub- 
lished this  week  with  a  most  laughable  illustration  by  the 
Hogarth  of  the  day,  George  Cruikshank.  There's  dramatic 
fame  for  you!  In  blank  verse  too,  mind  I  don't  say 
poetry  !  I  have  a  conscience  as  well  as  another  man." 

Friends,  even  his  dearest  one  Banim,  noticed  that  he 
shunned  their  company,  and  grew  morbidly  sensitive  and 
reserved.  One  went  in  search  of  him,  and  after  much  dif- 
ficulty discovered  him  in  a  poor  district,  in  a  squalid  lodg- 
ing, the  landlady  of  which  expressed  her  fears  that  he  was 
in  want  of  the  necessaries  of  life,  and  was  besides  battling 
against  illness.  An  offer  of  assistance  was  made,  which 
was  rejected  haughtily,  and  resentfully,  by  the  poor  strug- 
gler.  Precisely  at  this  moment,  when  the  strain  had  be- 
came unendurable,  these  gallant  efforts  found  some  reward  : 
and  this  darkest  hour  proved  to  be  the  last  before  the  dawn, 
or  some  good  promise  of  the  dawn.  Then,  and  then  only, 
did  the  unselfish  creature  open  his  heart  to  those  at  home, 
and  ask  sympathy  for  what  he  had  gone  through. 

Nearly  two  years  of  this  terrible  struggle  had  gone  by, 
and  he  thus  at  last  confided  to  his  parents  all  he  had  suf- 
fered:— 

"  MY  DEAR,  EVER  DEAR  FATHER  AND    MOTHER, Under 

the  circumstances  as  they  appear  to  you,  it  is  matter  more 
of  pain  than  astonishment  to  me,  that  you  should  have  been 
so  entirely  at  a  loss  in  finding  excusable  motives  for  my 
silence.  It  is  one  of  those  misfortunes  (and  I  hope  the 


GERALD  GRIFFIN.  417 

last  of  them)  which  the  miserable  and  galling  life  I  have 
led  since  I  came  to  London  (until  very  lately)  has  thrown 
on  my  shoulders,  and  which  of  course  I  must  endure  as  well 
as  I  can.  But  if  you  knew,  my  dear  Mother,  what  that 
life  has  been,  it  would  I  believe  have  led  you  to  a  less  in- 
jurious conclusion  to  me.  Until  within  a  short  time  back 
I  have  not  had  since  I  left  Ireland  a  single  moment's  peace 
of  mind — constantly — constantly  running  backward  and 
forward  and  trying  a  thousand  expedients,  and  only  to 
meet  disappointments  everywhere  I  turned.  It  may  per- 
haps appear  strange  and  unaccountable  to  you,  but  I  could 
not  sit  down  to  tell  you  only  that  I  was  in  despair  of  ever 
being  able  to  do  anything  in  London,  as  was  the  fact  for 
a  long  time.  I  never  will  think  or  talk  upon  the  subject 
again.  It  was  a  year  such  as  I  did  not  think  it  possible  I 
could  have  outlived,  and  the  very  recollection  of  it  puts 
me  into  the  horrors.  Let  me  first,  however,  beg  you  to  be 
satisfied  that  this  it  was,  and  no  neglect — I  was  not  guilty 
of  it  for  an  instant — that  prevented  my  writing  ;  beside 
that  when  I  do  write  I  must  fill  up  a  large  sheet,  or  send 
none.  When  first  I  came  to  London,  my  own  self-conceit, 
backed  by  the  opinion  of  one  of  the  most  original  geni- 
uses of  the  age,  induced  me  to  set  about  revolutionizing 
the  dramatic  taste  of  the  time  by  writing  for  the  stage. 
Indeed  the  design  was  formed,  and  the  first  step  taken  (a 
couple  of  pieces  written)  in  Ireland.  I  cannot  with  my 
present  experience  conceive  anything  more  comical  than 
my  own  views  and  measures  at  the  time.  A  young  gentle- 
man totally  unknown,  even  to  a  single  family  in  London, 
coming  into  town  with  a  few  pounds  in  one  pocket,  and  a 
brace  of  tragedies  in  the  other,  supposing  that  the  one  will 
set  him  up  before  the  others  are  exhausted,  is  not  a  very 
novel,  but  a  very  laughable  delusion.  'Twould  weary  you, 
or  I  would  carry  you  through  a  number  of  curious  scenes 
s* 


4i8  THE    ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

into  which  it  led  me.  Only  imagine  the  modest  young 
Munsterman  spouting  his  tragedy  to  a  room  full  of  literary 
ladies  and  gentlemen  ;  some  of  high  consideration  too. 
The  applause  however  of  that  circle  on  that  night  was 
sweeter,  far  sweeter  to  me,  than  would  be  the  bravos  of  a 
whole  theatre  at  present,  being  united  at  the  time  to  the 
confident  anticipation  of  it.  One  of  the  people  present 

immediately  got  me  an  introduction  to (I  was  offered 

several  for  all  the  actors).     To I  went — and  he  let 

down  the  pegs  that  made  my  music.  He  was  very  polite — 
talked  and  chatted  about  himself  and  Shiel  and  my  friend 
— excellent  friend  Banim.  He  kept  my  play  four  months, 
wrote  me  some  nonsensical  apologies  about  keeping  it  so 
long,  and  cut  off  to  Ireland,  leaving  orders  to  have  it  sent 
to  my  lodgings,  without  any  opinion.  I  was  quite  sur- 
prised at  this,  and  the  more  so,  as  Banim,  who  is  one  of 
the  most  successful  dramatic  writers,  told  me  he  was  sure 
he  would  keep  it :  at  the  same  time  saying,  what  indeed  I 
found  every  person  who  had  the  least  theatrical  knowledge 
join  in,  that  I  acted  most  unwisely  in  putting  a  play  into 
an  actor's  hands.  But  enough  of  theatricals?  Well,  this 
disappointment  sent  me  into  the  contrary  extreme.  I  be- 
fore imagined  I  could  do  anything ;  I  now  thought  I  could 
do  nothing.  One  supposition  was  just  as  foolish  as  the 
other.  It  was  then  I  set  about  writing  for  those  weekly 
publications;  all  of  which,  except  the  'Literary  Gazette,' 
cheated  me  abominably.  Then  finding  this  to  be  the  case, 
I  wrote  for  the  great  magazines.  My  articles  were  gener- 
ally inserted ;  but  on  calling  for  payment — seeing  that  I 
was  a  poor  inexperienced  devil,  there  was  so  much  shuf- 
fling and  shabby  work  that  it  disgusted  me,  and  I  gave  up 
the  idea  of  making  money  that  way.  I  now  lost  heart  for 
everything;  got  into  the  cheapest  lodgings  I  could  make 
out,  and  there  worked  on,  rather  to  divert  my  mind  from 


GERALD  GRIFFIX. 


419 


the  horrible  gloom  that  I  felt  growing  on  me  in  spite  of 
myself,  than  with  any  hope  of  being  remunerated.  This, 
and  the  recollection  of  the  expense  I  had  pat  William  to, 
and  the  fears — that  every  moment  became  conviction — that 
I  should  never  be  enabled  to  fulfill  his  hopes  or  my  own 
expectations,  all  came  pressing  together  upon  my  mind 
and  made  me  miserable.  A  thousand,  and  a  thousand 
times  I  wished  that  I  could  lie  down  quietly  and  die  at 
once,  and  be  forgotten  forever.  But  that  however  was 
not  to  be  had  for  the  asking.  I  don't  think  I  left  anything 
undone  that  could  have  changed  the  course  of  affairs,  or 
brought  me  a  little  portion  of  the  good  luck  that  was  going 
on  about  me  :  but  good  luck  was  too  busy  elsewhere.  I 
can  hardly  describe  to  you  the  state  of  mind  I  was  in  at 
this  time.  It  was  not  an  indolent  despondency,  for  I  was 
working  hard,  and  I  am  now — and  it  is  only  now — receiv- 
ing money  for  the  labor  of  those  dreadful  hours.  I  used 
not  to  see  a  face  that  I  knew,  and  after  sitting  writing  all 
day,  when  I  walked  in  the  streets  in  the  evening  it  actually 
seemed  to  me  as  if  I  was  of  a  different  species  altogether 
from  the  people  about  me.  The  fact  was,  from  pure  anx- 
iety alone  I  was  more  than  half  dead,  and  would  most 
certainly  have  given  up  the  ghost  I  believe,  were  it  not 
that  by  the  merest  accident  on  earth,  the  literary  friend 
who  had  procured  me  the  unfortunate  introduction  a  year 
before  dropped  in  one  evening  to  '  have  a  talk'  with  me. 
I  had  not  seen  him,  nor  anybody  else  that  I  knew,  for  some 
months,  and  he  frightened  me  by  saying  I  looked  like 
a  ghost.  In  a  few  days  however  a  publisher  of  his  ac- 
quaintance had  got  some  things  to  do — works  to  arrange, 
regulate,  and  revise ;  so  he  asked  me  if  I  would  devote  a 
few  hours  in  the  middle  of  ever)  day  to  the  purpose  for 
^£50  a  year.  I  did  so,  and  among  other  things  which  I 
got  to  revise  was  a  weekly  fashionable  journal.  After  I 


420 


THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 


had  read  this  for  some  weeks,  I  said  to  myself,  '  Why  hang 
it,  I  am  sure  I  can  write  better  than  this  at  any  rate.'  And 
at  the  same  time  I  knew  that  the  contributors  were  well 
paid.  I  wrote  some  sketches  of  London  life,  and  sent  them 
anonymously  to  the  editor,  offering  to  contribute  without 
payment.  ...  I  have  the  satisfaction  to  see  my  articles 
quoted  and  commended  in  the  daily  papers ;  satisfaction, 
I  say,  as  everything  of  that  kind  gives  me  a  firmer  hold  of 
the  paper.  The  theatrical  department  is  left  altogether  to 
me;  and  I  mortify  my  revengeful  spirit  by  invariably  giv- 
ing   (the  actor)  all  the  applause  he  could  expect,  or 

in  justice  lay  claim  to.  I  assure  you  I  feel  a  philosophical 
pride  and  comfort  in  thus  proving  to  myself  that  my  con- 
duct is  not  to  be  influenced  by  that  of  another,  no  matter 
how  nearly  the  latter  may  affect  my  interests.  Thus,  things 
begin  to  look  in  smiles  upon  me  at  last.  I  have  within  the 
past  fortnight  cleared  away  the  last  of  the  debts  I  had  in- 
curred here  with  the  good  fortune  of  meeting  them  in  full 
time  to  prevent  even  a  murmur.  With  the  assistance  of 
heaven,  I  hope  my  actual  embarrassments  ('tis  laughable 
to  apply  the  words  to  such  little  matters  as  they  are) 
have  passed  away  forever. — Your  affectionate  son,  GERALD 
GRIFFIN." 

Had  passed  away  forever  !  It  happily  proved  that  he 
spoke  with  certainty.  With  this  the  tide  began  to  turn  in 
the  most  remarkable  way ;  he  discovered  a  vein  for  story- 
telling, and  the  charming  "Collegians" — a  tale  written 
with  much  of  the  grace  of  his  countryman  Goldsmith — was 
presently  to  make  his  name  known,  and  raise  him  above 
want.  Then  followed  success  and  reputation. 

Mr.  Forster,  with  the  sympathy  of  a  man  of  genius,  has 
admirably  touched  the  true  significance  of  this  story — 
which  has  been  too  long  overlooked  : — 

"Gerald  Griffin's  life  was  one  of  those  strange,  silent 


GERALD   GRIFFIN.  -I 

romances  which  pass  quite  unheeded  amid  the  roar  and 
movement  of  the  busier  life  around  them ;  yet  the  reader 
will  find  a  brief  mention  of  it  not  at  all  inappropriate  to 
my  present  subject.  He  was  a  Limerick  man,  and  at  the 
age  of  twenty,  eager  to  make  a  great  dash  upon  the  stage, 
be  came  up  to  London  without  a  friend,  but  with  one 
tragedy  finished  in  his  pocket,  and  another  rapidly  forming 
in  his  brain.  The  desperate  craving  of  his  youth  was  to 
force  his  way  into  the  London  theatres,  and  he  seems  to 
have  determined  very  resolutely  to  use  the  faculty  of  which 
he  felt  himself  possessed  to  that  end,  failure  or  neglect  to 
the  contrary  notwithstanding — Aguirft  his  first  tragedy, 
making  no  way  towards  a  hearing,  he  wrote  a  second.  This 
was  GisippuSj  and  written  as  it  was  in  his  twentieth  year, 
I  do  not  hesitate  to  call  it  one  of  the  marvels  of  youthful 
production  in  literature.  The  solid  grasp  of  character,  the 
manly  depth  of  thought,  the  beauties  as  well  as  defects  of 
the  composition  (more  than  I  can  here  enumerate),  wanted 
only  right  direction  to  have  given  to  our  English  drama 
another  splendid  and  enduring  name.  In  little  London 
coffee-houses,  on  little  strips  of  paper,  the  tragedy  was 
written.  But  he  could  get  no  hearing  for  it.  Still  un- 
daunted, he  wrote  a  comedy,  he  wrote  forces — he  tried  the 
stage  at  every  avenue,  and  it  would  have  none  of  him. 
Meanwhile,  he  had  been  starving  for  two  miserable  vears ; 
waiting  all  day  within-doors,  and  never  venturing  out  till 
darkness  threw  its  friendly  veil  over  his  threadbare  coat ; 
to  use  the  common  phrase,  denying  himself  (because  he 
could  not  get  them)  the  common  necessaries  of  life ;  fasting 
*  three  days  together  without  tasting  food,'  in  a  small  room 
in  an  obscure  court  near  St.  Paul's;  living  for  the  most 
part,  in  short,  on  such  munificent  booksellers*  rewards  as 
two  guineas  for  the  translation  of  a  volume  and  a  half  of  a 
French  novel.  Something  better  presented  itself  at  last, 
36 


422  7 HE    ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 

however,  and  emerging  from  his  misery,  he  became  a  critic, 
a  reporter,  and,  stimulated  by  Banim's  success,  a  writer  of 
Irish  tales.  His  dramatic  dream  was  dreamt,  and  he  never 
returned  to  the  stage  again.  But  not  without  ill  effects  to 
himself  could  he  hope  to  keep  thus  dormant  and  unused 
the  faculty  which,  as  it  seems  to  me,  he  had  received  in 
greatest  abundance.  More  even  than  the  zeal  of  God's 
House,  in  his  later  years  this  eat  him  ufi." 

He  had  bade  adieu  forever  to  what  had  at  first  tempted 
him  to  London — the  delicious  ignis  fatuus  of  the  stage, 
which  had  led  him  on  through  so  many  miseries.  His 
poetical  plays  were  flung  aside  and  never  thought  of  again. 
— Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  success,  not  under  the 
pressure  of  any  wretchedness,  the  thought  occurred  to  him 
that  there  was  something  more  worthy  of  his  energies,  and 
of  the  purpose  of  a  life,  than  the  writing  popular  stories 
for  bread  ;  and.  without  ostentation  or  parade  of  piety,  he 
quietly  withdrew  himself  from  the  world  and  retired  to  a 
monastery,  where  he  lived  a  happy  life,  then  fell  into  a  sud- 
den fever,  and  died  holily.  Before  entering  the  monastery 
he  had  burnt  his  first  play  "  Aguire" — but  had  stayed  his 
hand  when  he  came  to  "Gisippus,"  "perhaps,"  as  Mr. 
Forster  says,  "  in  touching  memory  of  his  early  hopes,  and 
that  some  record  might  be  left  in  vindication  of  them." 
Two  years  after  his  death  came  the  ironical  amende  of  for- 
tune :  not  however  too  late  ;  for  the  author,  had  he  been 
alive,  would  probably  have  been  indifferent.  The  piece 
was  taken  from  the  dusty  shelf  or  forgotten  drawer,  brought 
out  at  Drury  Lane,  adorned  with  the  splendid  acting  of 
Macready  and  Miss  Faucit,  and  received  triumphantly. 
The  Press  exhausted  itself  in  praises.  As  the  curtain  fell 
the  audience  rose  to  their  feet,  and  the  theatre  rang  with 
acclamations.  It  was  felt  that  a  work  full  of  grace  and 
beauty  had  been  presented.  The  great  actress,  and  the 


THE    YOUNG  ROSCIUS.  423 

greater  actor,  who  had  interpreted  the  chief  characters, 
were  summoned  again  and  again.  Nor  was  this  the  con- 
ventional tribute,  that  has  since  become  hackneyed.  The 
piece  grew  in  popularity,  and  was  acted  many  times.  Yet 
it  was  owned  that,  mixed  with  the  triumph  there  was  a  sort 
of  painful  feeling — an  indistinct  sense  that  the  recognition 
had  been  delayed  too  long — until  the  now-acclaimed  author 
was  in  his  grave.  Few,  however,  knew  the  story  of  the 
struggle,  the  agonies  of  hope  and  suffering,  connected  with 
the  piece  they  witnessed.  Fewer  still  knew  that  the  author 
had  closed  his  weary  life,  a  poor  simple  monk,  and  was 
now  at  rest  by  the  waters  of  the  River  Lee. 

There  is  no  such  affecting  chapter  in  the  whole  pathetic 
chronicle  of  the  Stage. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 


THE   YOUNG   ROSCIUS. 


WERE  it  announced,  during  the  present  year,  that  there 
was  still  living  a  person  who  had  been  the  talk  of  the  whole 
kingdom,  and  a  popular  idol,  fully  seventy  years  ago,  such 
a  statement  might  fairly  be  received  with  wonder  or  incre- 
dulity. Such  a  phenomenon  involves  a  union  of  longevity 
and  of  distinction  not  likely  to  be  found  in  the  same  per- 
son. Yet  Mr.  or  "Master"  Betty,  once  the  "Young 
Roscius,"  who  died  in  the  month  of  August  in  the  present 
year,  was  transporting  vast  audiences  with  delight,  was 
sought  and  run  after,  in  the  year  1803,  and  may  be  thus 
considered  the  single  celebrity  of  that  era  who  has  survived 


424 


THE    ROMANCE    OF   THE   STAGE. 


to  our  day.  Further,  he  stands  at  the  head  of  the  line  of 
"  infant  prodigies,"  if,  indeed,  he  may  not  be  distinguished 
from  that  uninteresting  class.  It  seems  to  be  understood 
that  there  was  something  singularly  attractive,  and  that 
touched  the  heart,  in  the  performance  of  "this  beautiful 
-and  intelligent  boy,"  as  he  was  called — a  something  that 
enabled  him  to  surmount  the  awkward  incongruities  of  his 
theatrical  position,  such  as  the  spectacle  of  a  child  acting 
with  grown-up  people.  It  was  a  very  original  and  striking 
performance,  distinguished  from  the  feeble  and  unpleasant 
efforts  of  other  infant  performers.  Much  that  is  interest- 
ing and  even  romantic  belongs  therefore  to  the  story  of 
"  young  Master  Betty,"  who  so  lately  departed  as  the  very 
old  Mr.  Betty. 

Dr.  Betty,  an  Irish  doctor  from  the  north  of  Ireland,  had 
married  an  English  lady  named  Stanton,  who  was  of  gen- 
teel family.  Later,  this  point  was  much  insisted  on,  and 
all  connection  with  the  stage  disclaimed,  for  certain  mali- 
cious- persons  insinuated  that  Stanton  was  a  name  well 
known  in  the  profession  ;  as  indeed  readers  of  Boswell  will 
recollect,  a  Lichfield  manager  of  that  name  having  waited 
on  Dr.  Johnson  to  ask  him  to  command  a  play.  She,  it 
seems,  brought  to  her  husband  the  handsome  but  oddly- 
named  "manor  of  Hopton  Wafers,"  while  he  himself 
possessed  a  competence.  They  were  staying  at  Shrewsbury 
when  the  prodigy  "Master  Henry  Betty"  was  born,  an 
event  which  took  place  on  Sept.  i3th,  1791,  and  was  duly 
registered  at  St.  Chad's  Church.  When  he  was  five  years 
old,  the  whole  family  returned  to  the  north  of  Ireland, 
where  Mr.  Betty  embarked  in  what  was  grandly  described 
as  "  business  relating  to  the  linen  manufacture  near  Bally- 
nahinch,"  combining  with  it  a  little  farming.  Here  the 
boy  was  duly  educated,  his  genteel  mother  paying  particular 
attention  to  his  pronunciation  and  accent,  "as  they  were 


THE    YOUNG  KOSCIUS.  4^5 

living  in  a  district  where  the  English  tongue  was  spoken  in 
its  worst  depravity."  One  day  the  child  heard  his  father 
declaim  Wolsey's  speech,  and  on  asking  what  was  the 
meaning  of  the  gestures,  was  told  they  were  what  is  usually 
styled  acting.  "  What  great  events,"  says  the  deeply-im- 
pressed chronicler  of  Master  Betty's  career,  "  spring  from 
events  apparently  trivial !  From  this  moment,  it  seems. 
his  destiny  was  determined !"  The  boy  began  to  learn 
speeches  out  of  plays,  which  he  used  to  recite  on  the  side- 
board for  friends.  The  passion  grew  in  him,  until  some 
of  the  genteel  relations  in  England  heard  of  his  taste,  and 
interposing,  required  that  it  should  be  summarily  checked. 
It  came  to  pass,  however,  that  in  the  year  1802  the  great 
Siddons  was  playing  in  Belfast,  and  Master  Betty  was  taken 
to  see  her  in  Elvira.  He  was  enchanted.  "  When  he  re- 
turned home,  he  told  his  father  with  a  look  of  such  enthu- 
siasm, and  a  voice  so  pathetic  that  those  who  heard  nim 
will  never  forget  the  expression,  that  he  should  certainly 
die  if  he  was  not  to  be  a  player."  He  could  think  of 
nothing  but  the  divine  Elvira ;  he  learned  her  speeches, 
and  became  so  possessed  with  theatrical  ideas  that  his 
father  took  him  to  the  Belfast  manager,  Atkins,  and  made 
him  recite  before  him.  Mr.  Hough,  the  prompter,  a  man 
of  more  practical  mind,  was  next  called  in  to  give  his 
advice — was  invited  on  a  visit  to  the  Bettys'  house,  where 
he  gave  the  boy  instruction.  It  is  quite  evident  therefore 
that  the  genteel  Bettys,  from  the  beginning,  were  not  dis- 
inclined to  turn  their  child's  talents  to  profit,  though  they 
affected  to  give  out  that  they  were  driven  to  allow  what 
they  disapproved.  As  at  this  time  the  rebellion  was  going 
on,  all  the  theatres  were  shut;  but  when  matters  were 
more  composed,  an  arrangement  was  made  with  Atkins — 
"  a  man  of  friendly  disposition  and  character" — for  the 
boy's  appearance  a:  hi  i  theatre.  The  first  appearance  of 
36* 


426  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

the  prodigy  was  announced  for  August  i6th,  1803,  in  exe- 
crable grammar  that  sufficiently  corresponded  with  "  the 
worst  depravity  of  pronunciation"  that  obtained  in  the 
district.  "  Mr.  Atkins  presents  his  respects  to  the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  of  Belfast,  and  the  public,  that,  willing  to 
bring  forward  every  novelty  in  his  power,  he  has,  through 
the  intercession  of  several  ladies,  prevailed  on  the  friends 
of  a  young  gentleman  only  eleven  years  old,  whose  theat- 
rical abilities  have  been  the  wonder  and  admiration  of 
all  who  have  heard  him,  to  perform  in  public  two  or  three 
of  the  characters  he  most  excels  in."  "  Zara"  was  the 
piece  selected,  from  the  pen  of  "that  ingenious  author 
Voltaire."  Martial  law  was  still  in  force,  and  the  theatre 
had  to  be  closed  by  nine  o'clock;  but  to  oblige  the  man- 
ager, "the  drums  had  been  ordered  to  beat  an  hour  later 
than  usual."  Every  one  in  Belfast,  of  course,  knew  it 
was  "little  Betty"  that  was  coming  forward,  and  the  curi- 
osity was  extraordinary.  The  success  was  stupendous,  and 
the  applause  tumultuous.  The  boy  (whose  age  was  truth- 
fully announced,  though,  according  to  professional  usage, 
he  might  fairly  have  been  introduced  as  being  only  eight 
years  old)  played  with  extraordinary  feeling  and  com- 
posure. Next  day  the  whole  town  was  talking  of  the  per- 
formance. The  hardheaded  flax-spinners  of  the  town 
were  skeptical,  but  went  to  judge  for  themselves.  His 
fame  spread  to  Dublin,  and  Jones,  the  well-known  man- 
ager, to  whom  Mr.  Croker  addressed  his  "Familiar  Epis- 
tles," at  once  made  an  engagement  with  him.  On 
November  28th,  "Douglas"  was  announced,  the  part  of 
Norval  "  by  a  young  gentleman  only  twelve  years  of  age, 
whose  admirable  talents  have  procured  him  the  deserved 
appellation  of  the  Infant  Roscius."  The  public  was  then 
respectfully  informed  that  the  authorities  had  suspended 
the  orders  for  persons  being  within  their  houses  by  an 


THE    YOUNG  ROSCIVS. 


427 


early  hoar,  and  that,  "  no  person  coming  from  the  theatre 
would  be  stopped  until  after  eleven  o'clock."  The  terms 
appear  to  have  been  that  he  was  to  share  the  house,  as  he 
had  done  at  Belfast :  and  in  Dublin  the  house  held  ^400. 
His  reception  was  of  the  most  tumultuous  kind.  The 
Dublin  audiences  are  as  impressionable  as  an  Italian  one. 
The  town  was  enraptured,  though  some  persons  of  more 
correct  taste  deprecated  the  spectacle  as  unworthy  of  the 
stage;  but  such  cavilers  were  overwhelmed  with  obloquy. 
He  gave  a  round  of  characters,  and  the  part  of  Hamlet 
"  he  learned  in  three  mornings."  Mr.  Jones  was  eager  to 
make  arrangements  for  "  farming"  the  prodigy  during  a 
number  of  years ;  but  the  prudent  father,  with  Mr.  Hough 
the  prompter,  who  had  been  taken  as  instructor,  and  what 
is  now  called  "advance  agent,"  declined  this  proposal. 
He  next  appeared  at  Cork,  where  the  nightly  receipts  of  a 
wretched  amphitheatre  rose  from  ten  pounds  to  one  hun- 
dred pounds.  At  Glasgow  he  had  the  same  success,  and 
a  person  who  attacked  him  in  the  papers,  being  discovered, 
was  compelled  to  leave  the  city.  He  was  received,  says 
the  manager  Jackson,  "with  the  greatest  bursts  of  ap- 
plause I  ever  remember  to  have  been  given  by  an  audi- 
ence. Nothing  that  words  can  express  can  come  up  to 
the  rail  extent  of  his  surprising  endowments,  which  so 
strongly  predominate  through  his  infant  frame."  This 
enthusiasm  seems  but  a  type  of  the  sort  of  delirium  into 
which  the  kingdom  was  to  be  thrown.  He  declared  that 
the  boy  "had  been  presented  by  Heaven,"  and  dwelt  on 
the  "perfect  and  refined  spirit  which  had  been  incor- 
porated with  his  form  previous  to  his  birth."  But  at 
Edinburgh  his  reception  was  even  more  rapturous,  and 
Lord  Meadowbank  addressed  to  him  what  was  styled  "  an 
elegant  admonitory  and  interesting  letter,"  sending  to 
him  "the  little  work  that  I  recommended  yesterday  to 


428  THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE   SJ^AGE. 

your  perusal,"  and  which  was  "by  much  the  most  valua- 
ble production  of  the  most  eminent  person  of  your  name, 
and  on  that  account  might  merit  your  attention.  I  am 
convinced  your  mind  will  burn  within  you  as  you  read." 
This  was,  in  short,  a  copy  of  the  "Minstrel,"  and  it 
is  amusing  to  see  how  either  local  pronunciation  or 
national  pride  had  lengthened  "Betty"  into  "Beattie." 
He  further  entreated  him  "  to  form  a  resolution"  to  study 
the  ancients — Homer,  Euripides,  &c.  This  is  a  good 
specimen  of  the  pedantic  tone  of  the  overpraised  "  liter- 
ary society"  of  Edinburgh.  The  last  six  nights  here,  his 
agent  says,  produced  nearly  ^850. 

He  was  now  to  appear  in  England,  and  Macready,  one 
of  the  eccentric  country  managers,  and  father  of  the  late 
tragedian,  secured  him  for  the  Birmingham  theatre.  This 
odd  being,  who  seems  to  have  ha  J  some  of  Mr.  Crum- 
mies's  singularities,  had  employed  Jackson  to  arrange  the 
engagement,  and  was  delighted  at  having  secured  the  prod- 
igy cheaply  at  ten  pounds  a  night.  But  when  the  party 
arrived,  and  he  saw  the  boy,  he  became  eager  to  be  let  off. 
They,  on  their  part,  were  willing  to  release  him  on  pay- 
ment of  traveling  expenses ;  on  which,  perhaps  mystified 
by  such  readiness,  he  made  a  cunning  proposal  that  sixty 
pounds  should  be  deducted  for  the  expenses  of  each  night : 
after  which  the  "  house  should  be  shared."  This  seemed 
a  safe  arrangement,  as  he  probably  calculated  that  the 
attraction  would  scarcely  draw  the  sixty  pounds.  But  the 
result  turned  out  fortunately  for  Master  Betty,  who  received 
fifty  pounds  a  night  instead  of  ten. 

An  "old  actress,"  whose  mother  was  engaged  at  the 
theatre,  recently  communicated  some  recollections  of  this 
season  to  a  daily  paper.  She  remembered  particularly  the 
first  presentation  of  the  boy  to  the  Birmingham  company  : 

"  On  the  morning  appointed  for  Master  Betty's  first  re- 


THE    YOUXG  ROSCIL'S. 


429 


hearsal,  there  was  a  great  assembly  in  the  green-room,  and 
everybody  evinced  the  utmost  anxiety  and  curiosity  to  see 
him.  He  came,  attended  by  Mr.  Hough.  To  my  childish 
sight  he  was  a  complete  vision  of  beauty  in  the  broad  day- 
light, without  the  night's  appliances.  '  What  is  he  like  ?' 
inquired  Miss  Smith,  afterwards  Mrs.  Bartley,  who  suc- 
ceeded Mrs.  Siddons  on  her  retirement.  '  Just  such  a  boy 
as  you  would  imagine,'  returned  the  manager ;  '  fair,  bright- 
eyed,  intelligent,  and  handsome.'  Betty  bowed  in  an  ele- 
gant manner  as  Mr.  Macready  presented  him  and  his  tutor 
to  the  company.  The  latter  kept  aloof.  The  boy  went 
round  the  room,  and  shook  hands  with  all  in  a  winning, 
easy  manner,  yet  was  totally  devoid  of  either  bashful- 
ness  or  boldness.  '  My  Lord  Randolph,  my  father,  Mr. 
Holmes,  old  Norval,  Glenalvon'  (a  very  low  bow).  '  Al- 
low me,'  said  Mrs.  Glover  or  Mrs.  Lichfield,  'as  your 
mother,  Lady  Randolph,  to  give  you  a  kiss,'  and  I  quite 
trembled  with  delight  as  I  leaned  on  my  mother's  knee, 
when  be  shook  hands  with  her  as  the  gentle  Anna.  Mr. 
Hough  was  the  constant  guide  and  companion  of  the  Young 
Roscius.  He  was,  doubtless,  a  clever  man,  and  had  an  ex- 
cellent method  of  instruction.  My  mother  saw  one  of  his 
marked  books,  with  lines  for  the  proper  inflection  of  the 
voice,  and  instructions  as  to  action :  '  Here  raise  your 
voice — lower  your  voice  here — put  the  right  leg  forward 
here — withdraw  it  here !' 

"  Master  Betty  made  his  first  appearance  in  Birmingham, 
in  the  character  of  young  Norval.  His  looks  upon  his  en- 
trance fascinated  and  riveted  the  attention  of  the  audience. 
His  youthful  figure  was  graceful  in  the  extreme,  and  the 
picturesque  Highland  costume  displayed  it  to  the  utmost 
advantage.  His  features  were  delicate,  but  somewhat  fem- 
inine; his  eyes  were  a  full,  bright,  and  shining  blue;  his 
fair  hair  was  long,  and  hung  in  ringlets  over  his  shoulders ; 


-430  THE   ROMANCE    OF  THE   STAGE. 

in  the  daytime  those  abundant  tresses  were  confined  with  a 
comb,  which  still  more  gave  the  idea  of  a  female  in  male 
costume.  His  first  speech  was  heard  amidst  the  hushed 
silence  of  the  audience.  It  commences  with  'a  low-born 
man,'  and  finishes  with  the  expression  of  a  desire  to  be  a 
soldier  and  'gain  a  name  in  arms.'  There  was  a  pause, 
and  as  Lord  Randolph  commenced  his  reply  he  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  tremendous  burst  of  applause.  Betty  played 
four  nights  during  the  first  week  of  his  engagement ;  but 
on  each  occasion  the  theatre  was  only  moderately  attended. 
Mr.  Macready  began  to  entertain  uneasy  doubts  as  to  the 
profit  to  be  derived  from  the  performances,  and  the  actors 
decided  that  the  Young  Roscius  was  totally  unattractive. 
His  fame  and  reputation  were,  however,  steadily  advancing, 
and  each  succeeding  night  of  his  engagement  the  theatre 
was  crowded  with  eager  and  enthusiastic  spectators.  The 
'sensation'  was  potent ;  it  had  affected  all  sorts  and  condi- 
tions of  people,  and  the  rage  to  witness  the  wonderful 
child  became  universal  among  the  inhabitants  of  Birming- 
ham." 

The  furore  was  indeed  prodigious.  The  hotels  were 
crammed  to  overflowing :  and  the  stage-coaches  from  all 
the  district  round  arrived  filled  with  persons  eager  to  se- 
cure places  at  the  theatre.  If  he  excited  this  enthusiasm, 
he  was  also  to  provoke  controversy,  with  opposition  and 
even  riot.  Vehement  pamphlets  were  issued  in  his  praise, 
the  most  curious  of  which  was  one  by  Bisset,  a  local  scribe. 

The  son  of  the  country  manager  and  the  handsome  boy- 
actor  became  great  friends  and  playfellows.  They  used  to 
contrive  practical  jokes,  one  of  which  they  carried  out  at 
the  house  of  an  "  influential  gentleman  of  Birmingham," 
who  had  invited  them  to  dine,  by  removing  the  cushions 
of  a  sofa,  but  leaving  the  cover,  so  that  a  stout  old  gentle- 
man and  lady,  who  sat  down,  fell  through  to  the  ground. 


THE    YOUNG  ROSCIUS.  _;i 

The  sketch  of  the  old  manager  recalls  the  figure  of  Miss 
O'Neill's  father,  who  was  of  the  same  type. 

"My  mother,"  says  the  "old  actress,"  "acted  Floran- 
the,  the  lady-love  of  Octavian,  in  'The  Mountaineers.' 
On  Florantbe  making  her  appearance,  she  was  startled  and 
confused  by  a  rapturous  burst  of  applause,  which  lasted  so 
long  that  she  almost  felt  herself  a  subject  of  ridicule  ;  and 
what  added  to  her  confusion  was  *  Misther'  Macready  call- 
ing out  in  a  broad  Irish  accent,  '  Bow,  bow !  death  and 
confusion,  why  don't  yon  bow!'  His  Milesian  instincts 
were  most  furious  when  he  was  excited.  Now  my  mother, 
who  was,  as  I  have  said,  very  pretty,  and  was  then  in  her 
twenty-fifth  year,  looked  exceedingly  well  in  male  attire, 
yet  was  not  vain  enough  to  believe  that  her  appearance 
was  so  beautiful  as  to  excite  the  audience  to  such  a  raptur- 
ous expression  of  their  admiration  ;  consequently  she  did 
not  bow,  because  the  idea  immediately  occurred  to  her 
that  she  was  mistaken  for  the  young  Roscins,  which  was 
indeed  the  case.  The  effect  of  this  contretemps  was  that 
Floranthe's  first  scene  resulted  in  a  dead  silence,  and  that 
when  the  boy  really  appeared  as  Octavian  he  was  but 
coldly  received." 

The  boy,  who  was  naturally  made  a  pet  of,  seems  to  have 
been  engaging  enough,  and  once  wept  because  the  man- 
ager would  not  allow  him  to  act  for  the  benefit  of  one  of 
the  actresses.  Many  stories  were  also  told  of  his  charity. 

In  this  tide  of  success  there  arrived  a  gentleman  from 
Drury  Lane,  Mr.  Justice  Graham,  who  came  to  pass  judg- 
ment on  the  talents  of  the  prodigy,  and  made  the  sur- 
prisingly meagre  offer  of  "half  a  clear  benefit"  for  seven 
nights'  acting.  This  was  at  once  declined,  Manager  Mac- 
ready  pronouncing  that  fifty  guineas  a  night  was  the  lowest 
that  ought  to  be  accepted.  The  managers  of  Covent 
Garden — Harris  and  Kemble — heard  of  the  failure  of  this 


432 


THE   ROMANCE    OF   THE  STAGE. 


attempt,  and  instantly  dispatched  a  Captain  Barlow  to 
Birmingham,  with  carte  blanche  for  terms.  A  rather  odd 
engagement  was  then  made  :  the  boy  was  to  appear  for 
three  nights  in  the  last  week  of  November,  three  in  the 
first  week  of  December,  three  in  the  last  week  of  Janu- 
ary, and  three  in  the  first  week  of  February.  Repenting 
of  their  slackness,  the  Drury  Lane  management  then  dis- 
patched an  emissary  with  fresh  offers ;  and,  through  an 
oversight  in  the  Covent  Garden  agreement,  were  able  to 
secure  him  for  the  intervening  nights,  for  which  he  was 
not  bound  to  the  rival  house.  With  a  wish  also  to  secure 
his  first  appearance  at  their  house,  they  made  him  hand- 
some offers  to  cancel  all  his  provincial,  engagements. 
This  he  honorably  refused  to  do ;  though  it  must  be  said 
that  the  event  proved  that  he  had  taken  the  wisest  as  well 
as  the  most  honorable  course.  For  all  during  this  progress 
he  was  receiving  over  one  hundred  pounds  a  night,  and  at 
the  same  time  the  enthusiasm  was  whetting  London  ex- 
pectancy. Bruises  and  torn  clothes  attended  the  operation 
of  securing  places;  whilst  at  Manchester  the  confusion  was 
so  tremendous,  that  all  applications  for  boxes  were  re- 
quired to  be  made  by  letter,  and,  after  being  placed  in  a 
bag,  were  solemnly  drawn  by  lot,  in  presence  of  two 
respectable  gentlemen  of  the  town.  We  learn,  also,  that 
Master  Betty  "enjoyed  the  particular  notice  of  the  Duke 
of  Gloucester,"  who  was  commanding  in  that  part  of  the 
country,  and  who  was  graciously  pleased  to  express  a  rather 
barren  wish  that  the  prodigy,  or  "Infant  Roscius,"  should 
receive  a  sound  education.  His  father  now  received  a 
flattering  letter  from  the  great  John  of  Covent  Garden, 
who,  for  all  his  devotion  to  what  was  classical,  was  not  in- 
different to  what  was  likely  to  "  take."  He  spoke  of  "the 
happiness  he  should  soon  enjoy  in  welcoming  them  to 
Covent  Garden,  and  heartily  congratulated  the  stage  on 


THE    YOUNG  ROSCIUS. 


433 


the  ornament  and  support  it  was  to  receive  from  Master 
Betty's  extraordinary  talents  and  exertions."  It  was  hardly 
fair  of  "glorious  John"  to  affect  later  to  be  disgusted  with 
the  raptures  of  the  London  audiences  at  performances 
which  he  himself  had  thus  encouraged.  At  the  Doncaster 
races,  there  were  to  be  seen  carriages  starting  for  Sheffield, 
labeled  "  Theatrical  Coaches,  to  carry  six  inside  to  see  the 
Young  Roscius;"  while  silver  cups  were  presented  by 
grateful  managers. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  expectancy  with  which  he  was 
waited  in  London.  Saturday,  December  i,  1804,  was  the 
day  chosen  for  his  appearance.  By  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning  a  crowd  of  persons  was  parading  Bow  Street  and 
the  colonnades  of  Covent  Garden  ;  and  towards  one  o'clock 
there  was  a  line  of  people  at  the  doors  of  the  theatre.  Be- 
fore evening  the  line  was  stretching  in  long  impenetrable 
columns  beyond  Bow  Street  into  Drury  Lane.  As  the  hour 
for  opening  drew  near,  the  air  was  filled  with  shrieks ;  there 
was  crushing  and  fainting.  Then  the  crowd  was  admitted, 
and  the  house  was  filled  in  a  few  moments.  Notwithstand- 
ing, there  was  a  pressure  forwards,  from  masses  still  strug- 
gling to  make  their  way  in ;  until  a  force  of  soldiers  drew 
up  before  the  doors,  and  saved  the  crowd  within  from  being 
overwhelmed.  As  Cowper  sang : 

"  The  theatre,  too  small,  did  suffocate 
Its  squeezed  contents,  and  more  than  it  admitted 
Did  sigh  at  their  exclusion,  and  return 
Ungratified  ;  for  BETTY  there,  the  Boy, 
Did  strut  and  storm  and  straddle,  stamp  and  stare, 
And  show  the  world  how  Garrick  did  not  act." 

The  pit  was  nearly  two-thirds  filled  by  gentlemen  who  paid 
box-price,  rushed  in,  and  leaped  over  the  balconies  ;  when 
it  was  filled  these  unplaced  intruders  lawlessly  fixed  them- 
selves in  the  seats  of  others  who  had  secured  them  weeks  be- 

T  37 


434  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

fore,  and  there  defied  the  owners  and  their  remonstrances. 
Box-keepers  and  the  police  were  called,  but,  grown  des- 
perate, the  intruders  held  their  ground  by  main  force, 
and  with  indescribable  effrontery  compounded  for  their 
usurpation  by  allowing  a  few  ladies  into  the  front  seats. 
The  pit  was  like  a  surging  sea,  and  more  than  twenty  per- 
sons, overcome  by  the  heat  and  crush,  had  to  be  dragged 
up  into  the  boxes,  as  into  a  boat,  to  be  thence  transported 
into  the  lobbies.  As  some  relief,  the  curtain  was  raised 
about  a  foot,  and  thus  allowed  a  current  of  air  to  blow 
over  the  pit.  It  was  stated  that  some  charitable  ladies  in 
the  boxes  passed  the  whole  evening  in  fanning  some  ex- 
hausted gentlemen-friends  in  the  pit.  Loud  shrieks  would 
occasionally  rise  from  the  same  place,  and  hands  were  seen 
to  be  lifted  up,  as  if  imploring  aid  and  relief.  At  last  some 
order  was  restored,  and  Charles  Kemble  came  out  to  speak 
an  apropos  prologue,  but  was  not  listened  to.  He  at  once 
withdrew,  and  the  play  began.  The  actors  were  then 
ordered  off,  and  the  prologue  called  for,  which  was  deliv- 
ered in  a  Babel  of  noises.  The  first  act  of  the  play — 
which  was  the  ranting,  raging  "  Barbarossa" — was  got 
through  with  the  same  confusion,  the  prodigy  not  having 
to  appear  in  it.  Then  came  the  expected  moment ;  and 
Mr.  Boaden,  who  was  present,  thus  describes  the  scene : — 
"At  length,  dressed  as  a  slave,  in  white-linen  pantaloons, 
a  short,  close,  russet  jacket,  trimmed  with  sable,  and  a 
turban  hat  or  cap,  at  the  command  of  the  tyrant,  on  came 
the  desire  of  all  eyes, — Master  William  Henry  West  Betty. 
With  the  sagacity  of  an  old  stager,  I  walked  quietly  into 
the  house  at  the  end  of  the  first  act,  made  my  way  into  the 
lobby  of  the  first  circle,  planted  myself  at  the  back  of  one 
of  the  boxes,  outside,  and  saw  him  make  his  bow,  and 
never  stirred  till  the  curtain  fell  at  the  end  of  the  play.  I 
had  a  good  glass,  and  saw  him  perfectly.  He  was  a  fair, 


THE   YOUXG  ROSCIUS. 


435 


pleasing  youth,  well  formed,  and  remarkably  graceful. 
The  first  thing  that  struck  me  was,  that  it  was  passion  for 
the  profession  that  made  him  an  actor :  he  was  doing  what 
he  loved  to  do,  and  put  his  whole  force  into  it.  The  next 
thing  that  I  felt  was,  that  he  had  .amazing  docility,  and 
great  aptitude  at  catching  what  he  was  taught — he  could 
convey  passions  which  he  had  never  felt,  nor  seen  in  oper- 
ation, but  upon  the  stage.  Grace,  energy,  fire,  vehemence, 
were  his  own — the  understanding  was  of  a  marurer  brain. 
He  seemed,  however,  to  think  all  he  said ;  and  had  he  been 
taught  to  pronounce  with  accuracy,  there  was  nothing  be- 
yond requisite  for  the  profession." 

The  night  was  one  of  rapturous  triumph.  All  his  ex- 
ertions were  greeted  with  "huzzas" — a  different  mode  of 
salutation  from  the  modern  cheers.  The  Prince  of  Wales. 
"who  sat  in  Lady  Mulgrave's  box,"  led  the  applause ;  be- 
hind the  scenes  was  a  crowd  of  distinguished  persons — 
ladies  of  the  highest  rank,  who  had  been  pri vileged  by  Mr. 
Brandon,  the  popular  box-keeper;  with  the  Lord  Chief 
Baron,  Lord  Melville,  and  others.  Mr.  Colman  was  also 
present,  and  observed  to  be  enthusiastic.  Kemble's  de- 
meanor was  characteristically  reserved.  "  His  eyes  were 
riveted  on  him :  that  great  connoisseur  did  not  withhold 
his  due  meed  of  praise." 

In  short,  a  sort  of  delirium  had  now  set  in,  and  the  im- 
pression produced  was  perhaps  the  most  remarkable  ever 
known  on  the  English  stage.  Mrs.  Mathews  heard  "a 
great  man  declare  his  belief  that  the  boy  was  supernaturally 
gifted,  and  expected  to  see  the  roof  of  the  theatre  open 
some  night  and  his  spirit  ascend  !"  Duchesses  and  other 
ladies  of  title  were  seen  clustered  round  him,  and  their 
carriages  were  placed  at  his  service  to  take  him  to  the 
theatre.  The  King  and  Queen  sent  for  him,  and  he  was 
welcomed  at  Carlton  House.  When  he  fell  sick,  the  street 


436  THE  ROMANCE    OF  THE  STAGE. 

was  blocked  up  with  the  carriages  of  fair  inquirers.  Bulle- 
tins were  regularly  issued.  Northcote  painted  him,  in  one 
of  the  most  ludicrously  sentimental  pictures  that  can  be 
conceived — a  languishing  boy  taking  fire  from  Shake- 
speare's altar.  The  old  artist  told  Hazlitt,  with  much 
truth,  that  the  attraction  was  "  his  beautiful  effusion  of  nat- 
ural sensibility,  which,  with  the  graceful  play  of  limb  in 
youth,  gave  such  an  advantage  over  every  one  about  him." 
"Gentleman  Smith" — the  Turveydrop  of  the  stage — came 
up  from  his  country  place,  and,  with  great  solemnity,  pre- 
sented him  with  a  ring  of  Garrick's,  which  the  great  actor 
had  pledged  him  to  give  to  that  rare  performer  who  acted 
from  nature  and  the  heart.  Elliston's  opinion  we  would 
be  eager  to  know,  both  for  the  substance  as  well  as  for  the 
form  in  which  it  was  certain  to  be  delivered.  It  was  piquant 
and  original,  as  might  be  expected:  "Sir,"  he  said,  "my 
opinion  of  that  young  gentleman's  talents  will  never  trans- 
pire during  my  life.  I  have  written  my  convictions  down  ; 
they  have  been  attested  by  competent  witnesses,  and  sealed 
and  deposited  in  the  iron  safe,  at  my  banker's,  to  be  drawn 
forth  and  opened,  with  other  important  documents,  at 
my  death.  The  world  will  then  know  what  Mr.  Elliston 
thought  of  Master  Betty."  Strangest  of  all  was  a  compli- 
ment from  the  University  of  Cambridge,  who  selected  him 
as  the  subject  of  a  prize  ode. 

It  is  amusing  to  see  with  what  silent  indignation  the 
legitimate  actors  looked  on  at  the  success  of  the  pigmy- 
rival.  Kemble  and  his  greater  sister  were  scornful  and 
facetious.  She  pronounced  that  there  was  nothing  in  him  ; 
he  was  merely  "a  pretty  child."  With  all  their  great 
classic  repertoire,  they  now  had  to  stand  aside,  while  the 
town  indulged  its  humor.  Cooke  grumbled  loudly  at  being 
obliged  to  act  with  him,  while  the  attractive  Inchbald  de- 
clared he  was  merely  a  clever  little  boy,  and  had  she  never 


THE    YOUNG  JlOSCfUS.  z;; 

seen  boys  act,  would  have  thought  him  exquisite.  The 
whole  attitude,  indeed,  of  the  actors  suggests  one  of  Mr. 
Dickens's  inimitable  touches,  in  his  account  of  the  rueful- 
ness with  which  Mr.  Folair  set  himself  to  his  duty  of  co- 
operating with  the  Phenomenon.  Mrs.  Jordan's  was  the 
most  characteristic  protest ;  she  came  into  the  green-room 
with  her  ringing  laugh,  deploring  the  memory  of  Herod. 
"A  silly  lordling,"  says  Mrs.  Mathews,  "had  the  imperti- 
nent folly  to  ask  John  Kemble  whether  he  did  not  con- 
sider Master  Betty  the  finest  actor  upon  the  stage."  To 
which  delicate  question  "glorious  John,"  taking  a  pinch 
of  snuff  between  his  fingers  and  raising  it  slowly  to  his 
nose,  with  great  sang-froid  replied :  "  I  have  never,  my 
Lord,  seen  the  young  gentleman  play."  Yet,  as  we  have 
seen,  he  had  addressed  complimentary  speeches  to  the 
prodigy,  and  congratulated  the  stage  on  the  acquisition  of 
such  talent.  Emery,  Charles  Kemble,  Mrs.  Powell,  Ellis- 
ton,  and  other  actors  of  repute,  had  all  to  follow  in  the 
boy's  train. 

There  can  be  no  doubt  it  was  a  very  unique  and  inter- 
esting entertainment,  and  in  its  way  one  of  high  merit. 
The  proof  of  this  is  the  impression  left  on  persons  of 
superior  judgment.  Charles  Fox,  during  the  excitement 
of  the  performance,  went  so  far  as  to  declare  that  he 
thought  it  as  fine  as  Garrick's.  The  sober  judgment  of 
Boaden,  a  critic  of  experience,  we  have  seen.  In  size,  he 
was  taller  than  boys  of  his  years,  and  something  was  added 
to  his  height  by  artificial  means;  while  Mrs.  Lachfield, 
who  played  with  him  at  one  house,  was  purposely  selected 
as  being  of  short  stature.  His  most  successful  characters 
were  young  Xorval,  and  Selim  in  "  Barbarossa,"  both  of 
whom  were  youths ;  so  it  really  amounted  to  the  character 
of  a  youth  being  presented  with  singular  grace,  intelli- 
gence, and  talent  by  a  youth — a  very  rare  spectacle  in- 
37* 


438  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE   STAGE. 

deed.  Some  thought  that  the  charm  lay  in  his  restoration 
of  the  old  musical  chanting  that  belonged  to  the  days  of 
Mrs.  Pritchard  and  Mrs.  Gibber.  Much,  too,  was  to  be 
set  down  to  his  personal  attractions — a  soft,  interesting 
face,  a  small,  expressive  mouth,  flowing  auburn  hair,  and 
a  general  air  of  intelligence. 

It  was  only  natural  that  the  disdainful  soul  of  Kean 
should  decline  to  minister  to  the  fame  of  the  new  idol. 
He  later  found  himself  at  Weymouth,  where  Master  Betty 
was  engaged,  but  resolutely  declined  to  play  with  him. 
Pressed  by  the  manager,  he  fled  away,  and  in  one  of  his 
wild  moods  hid  himself  in  the  woods  outside  the  town. 
He  was  later  found  pacing  up  and  down  in  front  of  the 
theatre,  bitterly  execrating  his  fortune.  "He  has  overflow- 
ing houses ;  /  play  to  empty  benches.  But  I  know  that 
my  powers  are  superior  to  his." 

The  pecuniary  result  of  this  amazing  tide  of  success  was 
marvelous.  At  Drury  Lane,  for  twenty-eight  nights'  per- 
formance, from  December  10,  1804,  to  April  22,  1805,  the 
prodigious  sum  of  ^17,000  was  taken,  out  of  which  he  was 
paid  at  the  rate  of  p£ioo  a  night  for  nearly  the  whole  time. 
At  Covent  Garden  he  must  have  attracted  even  more 
money.  And  thus  was  exhibited  the  extraordinary  phe- 
nomenon of  a  boy  of  thirteen  bringing  nearly  ^40,000  to 
the  treasuries  of  two  vast  theatres  within  three  months ! 
He  enjoyed,  besides,  the  proceeds  of  two  benefits,  amount- 
ing to  the  handsome  sum  of  ^2500.  Hamlet  was  the  in- 
appropriate character  he  chose  for  one  of  these  occasions, 
though  he  took  care  to  omit  two  awkward  lines,  singularly 
apropos.  "Do  the  boys  carry  it  always?"  asks  Hamlet  ; 
to  whom  it  is  replied  :  "Ay,  that  they  do,  my  lord."  In 
short,  Mr.  Boaden  is  inclined  to  believe  that  during  this 
season  he  had  almost  made  his  fortune. 

The  father  appears  to  have  been  eager  to  turn  the  child's 


THE    YOUNG  ROSCIUS.  439 

talents  to  profit,  and  worked  him  at  high  pressure.  He 
had  an  instinct,  in  which  he  was  justified  by  the  issue,  that 
\\xtfurore  would  be  but  short-lived.  Without  an  instant's 
repose,  the  prodigy  was  taken  into  the  country  for  a  pro- 
vincial tour,  during  which  progress  the  scale  of  his  profits 
may  be  conceived  from  his  receiving  ^1000  at  Birmingham 
for  thirteen  nights'  playing.  He  visited  Wolverhampton, 
York,  and  Worcester.  Nearly  every  artist,  successful  in 
making  money,  is  pursued  with  accusations  of  meanness 
and  stinginess,  because  they  do  not  respond  to  the  enor- 
mous demands  made  upon  their  generosity.  Garrick,  Mrs. 
Siddons,  and  many  more  suffered  cruelly  from  this  charge. 
The  exertions  of  Betty,  the  father,  to  secure  all  the  money 
he  could  for  his  son  naturally  subjected  him  to  such  impu- 
tations. He  caused  a  scandal  by  announcing  a  performance 
in  Holy  Week  in  the  provinces,  which  drew  the  interfer- 
ence of  the  bishop.  Moody  used  to  tell  indignantly  how 
he  had  humbly  asked  the  father  of  the  Young  Roscius  to 
allow  the  boy  to  play  for  the  fund  for  decayed  actors,  which 
would  clear  them  from  all  their  difficulties,  and  how,  after 
six  weeks'  contemptuous  silence,  a  refusal  had  been  given. 
But  a  really  shabby  transaction  was  the  treatment  of  Hough, 
the  original,  painstaking  instructor  of  the  boy,  whose  judi- 
cious assistance  had  been  of  incalculable  sen-ice.  This 
faithful  ally,  who  had  been  taken  from  his  humble  post  at 
the  Belfast  theatre,  was  now  unceremoniously  dismissed,  and 
without  the  slightest  provision.  This  scandalous  ingrati- 
tude soon  began  to  be  talked  of,  and  the  discarded  tutor, 
stung  to  fury  by  such  neglect,  threatened  to  lay  his  wrongs 
before  the  public.  The  following  notice  was  significant : 
"Hough  v.  Betty.  An  appeal  to  the  judgment  and  candor 
of  an  impartial  British  public.  By  William  Hough,  late 
dramatic  tutor  to  the  Young  Roscius.  In  which  will  be 
introduced  a  curious  and  truly  original  correspondence, 


440  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE   STAGE. 

previous  and  subsequent  to  Master  Betty's  first  appearance 
on  the  stage.  With  notes  theatrical,  analytical,  and  ex- 
planatory. '  Blow,  blow,  thou  winter's  wind,  thou  art  not 
so  unkind  as  man's  ingratitude.'  "  Alarmed  by  such  a 
menace,  the  Bettys  at  once  came  to  terms,  and  fifty 
pounds  a  year  was  settled  on  the  theatrical  tutor  for  his 
life. 

An  amusing  story  was  told  connected  with  one  of  their 
country  tours.  Stephen  Kemble,  whose  chief  title  to  fame, 
besides  his  relation  to  the  greater  John  and  Sarah,  was  his 
being  "able  to  play  Falstaff  without  stuffing,"  came  to 
town  to  engage  Master  Betty  for  his  theatres  at  Durham 
and  Newcastle.  His  wife,  who  remained  in  the  country, 
was  often  pressed  to  report  his  opinion  of  the  phenomenon, 
but  she  was  disinclined  to  do  so,  save  in  the  instance  of 
Liston,  a  special  friend,  to  whom  she  showed  a  passage  in 
her  husband's  letter  which  was  to  the  effect  that  "  the  whole 
business  was  a  humbug."  Soon  after,  the  Newcastle  bills 
announced  the  prodigy,  and  Liston  one  morning  finding 
the  manager  reading  the  box-list  with  great  satisfaction, 
asked  him  if  he  thought  the  engagement  would  turn  out 
well.  "It  cannot  be  otherwise,  sir,"  was  the  reply,  "with 
his  stupendous  abilities."  Somewhat  astounded,  Liston  said 
he  did  not 'know  that  the  manager  held  so  high  an  opinion 
of  the  Young  Roscius.  "Sir,"  said  Mr.  Kemble  emphati- 
cally, "I  look  upon  Master  Betty  to  be  a  great — nay,  the 
greatest  tragic  performer  that  has  ever  appeared  upon  these 
or  any  other  boards!"  "I  suppose,"  answered  Liston, 
"that  you  except  Mrs.  Siddons  and  Mr.  Kemble."  "Sir," 
said  the  other,  "I  except  nobody."  Unable  to  resist  the 
temptation,  the  actor  then  asked  how  he  could  reconcile 
such  high  praise  with  the  opinion  written  to  Mrs.  Kemble. 
The  other  replied  still  more  emphatically,  "Sir,  I  maintain 
that  Master  Betty  is  the  finest  actor  now  living,  and  I  ques- 


THE    YOUNG  ROSCIUS.  441 

tion  if  he  be  not  the  finest  that  ever  lived  ;  for,"  he  added, 
his  fine  eyes  twinkling  with  humor,  "  1 have  engaged  him, 
sir.1' 

The  extravagant  popularity  of  the  young  Roscius  was  not 
destined  to  last  beyond  a  couple  of  seasons.  A  hostile 
party  presently  manifested  itself  in  the  theatres,  and  though 
friends  and  admirers  succeeded  in  putting  it  down,  there 
was  a  sensible  falling-off  in  the  attraction.  His  benefit 
shrank  from  the  triumphal  ^1500  to  a  modest  ^300,  the 
average  of  the  other  performers.  Still  it  was  a  compliment 
to  find  the  House  of  Commons  adjourning,  on  Pitt's  motion, 
to  go  and  see  him  play.  His  performance  of  Jeremy  Did- 
dler  was  another  token  of  weakness.  Indeed,  this  kind  of 
entertainment  can  only  flourish  in  extremes — mild  and 
tempered  approbation  is  not  one  of  the  conditions  of  its 
existence. 

At  last,  after  three  or  four  years  of  hard  work,  during 
which  the  interest  was  gradually  languishing,  it  was  seen 
that  a  youth  of  sixteen  or  seventeen  could  no  longer  be 
considered  a  juvenile  phenomenon.  The  confession  of  his 
true  age  at  starting  having  effectually  destroyed  the  chance 
of  any  of  the  usual  theatrical  fictions,  in  March,  1808,  it 
was  announced  at  Bath  that  he  was  about  to  retire ;  and 
in  July  of  the  same  year  he  withdrew  altogether,  and 
entered  Cambridge  University. 

He  was  now  to  become  "  a  gentleman  !"  A  commission 
was  given  to  him  in  the  Shropshire  Yeomanry.  At  the 
University,  it  was  often  remarked  that  when  theatrical 
matters  were  mentioned  he  preserved  a  solemn  silence,  as 
though  the  subject  were  disagreeable.  He  cultivated  ac- 
complishments, and  distinguished  himself  in  the  hunting- 
field.  He  contracted  a  taste  for  archery,  in  which  he  was 
all  his  life  signally  skillful.  His  eyes,  however,  not  un- 
naturally, turned  wistfully  to  the  splendid  triumphs  of  his 


442  THE  ROMANCE   OF  THE  STAGE. 

childhood,  and  he  was  slow  to  believe  that  his  success  was 
owing  to  anything  else  but  extraordinary  dramatic  genius. 
On  his  father's  death,  in  1811,  he  returned  to  the  stage, 
making  his  reappearance  at  Bath  in  February,  1812,  re- 
ceiving the  handsome  sum  of  ^800  for  nine  nights'  perform- 
ance. In  November  he  again  appeared  at  Covent  Garden 
at  fifty  guineas  a  night,  and  was  able  to  retain  his  position 
on  the  stage  as  a  clever  and  interesting  actor  for  twelve 
years  more,  when  in  August,  1824,  he  finally  made  his  bow. 
Fifty  years  have  passed  by  since  that  night,  and  it  was 
hardly  surprising  that  the  world  should  have  forgotten  the 
boy  that  for  a  time  extinguished  the  Kemble  glories,  and 
was  fondled  by  duchesses.  Nor  was  it  astonishing  that 
most  people  should  have  thought  that  years  ago  he  had 
been  gathered,  in  the  almost  invariable  theatrical  phrase, 
"to  the  tomb  of  all  the  Capulets."  Putting  a  recently- 
done  photograph  of  this  interesting  old  gentleman  beside 
an  engraving  published  in  the  magazines  of  "the  heaven- 
sent youth  of  1805,"  the  old  soft  and  gentle  air,  and  the 
outlines  of  the  captivating  features  which  so  long  ago  caused 
such  a  sensation,  can  be  recognized.  He  died  on  the  24th 
of  August  in  the  present  year,  and  his  story  makes  the  last, 
and  most  curious  chapter  in  the  ROMANCE  OF  THE  ENGLISH 
STAGE. 


